


Endless War

by Nonymos



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom, The Sandman (Comics)
Genre: Fix-It, Multi, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), to infinity and beyond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-04-30 04:17:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14488623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonymos/pseuds/Nonymos
Summary: There is always something more to lose.(Which means all is not lost.)





	1. Overture

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Бесконечная война](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18303230) by [Valariya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valariya/pseuds/Valariya)



> Hello, readers - I have seen Infinity War and I AM NOT OKAY. So... this is what happens next.
> 
> If you've read Neil Gaiman's _Sandman_ comics, you'll find a few familiar faces here. If you haven't, the story should be readable anyway. :)  
>  A THOUSAND HIGH-FIVES to my two amazing betas: Alby Mangroves, whose art and kindness and generosity is a blessing to the fandom, and leveragehunters, who whipped up an incredibly gorgeous banner in no time at all.
> 
> Updates Mondays and Thursdays. Pls rant, cry, keybang, and theorize at will in the comments! :D

 

 

 

_Earth to earth. Dust to dust. Ashes to ashes._

Steve had been walking in ash for days. It clung to his clothes. He breathed it in the air. Wherever he walked, his feet kicked up grey clouds that twirled up and quietly came back down. At first he’d tried to avoid stepping on it, out of some misguided sense of respect, and then he’d given up on that. There were no souls there. All the souls were gone.

He remembered the cloying thickness of Dachau’s chimneys. Ash falling from the sky, like pasty grey snow. Millions and millions of people gone up in dust. _To dust, to ashes._ During the war, when he’d seen exactly what was being done, Steve had thanked God Bucky’s family had left Europe three decades ago. Thanked God he hadn’t been there to be pushed into an oven. What a selfish thought when so many had died. This was his punishment. _For dust you are, and to dust you will return._

There was no body left to commit to the ground. Just like last time. From the mountains, in the snow, the long fall and the scream. This time there had been no scream. _Steve?_ Just confusion. Two steps towards him, and on the third everything crumbling. Steve’s sanity with it. _Ashes to ashes._ So much ash. Clinging to Steve’s feet, making them heavy like a thousand hands clinging to him, slowing him down to demand explanations from him. _Why didn’t you save us? Why are you still walking? This isn’t fair! This isn’t fair! This isn’t fair!_

Why was he the one alive, Steve thought. If he was being punished, why was it others who kept dying?

He didn’t know why he was still walking. He wasn’t even sure how he’d gotten to DC, on automatic pilot maybe since the battle itself. Here, too, the ground was greasy and grey. _Ashes to ashes to ashes._ His feet knew the way. Whenever things went wrong, Sam’s house had always been a home for him, the first and only home Steve had had, this side of time. During and after the fall of SHIELD, always a spot on the couch for him. The only warm space in a world of ice.

He opened the door with his spare key. The lock’s click echoed into emptiness. He took off his shoes, put the keys on the counter, saw the thin layer of dust there, and finally let himself know what he already knew: Sam was gone too. Steve hadn’t even seen him go. He was gone too and there was nothing left. No body. No one. If he called, no one would answer—no answer could be made.

Steve went to Sam’s room, closed the door and lay down on the bed. After that, nothing happened for a long while.

 

*

 

“I can’t do it,” Shuri mumbled, staring at her hands.

Okoye knelt in front of her.

She had seen Shuri’s birth, she had seen her grow. She had taught her to fight and to laugh. She had held her when she’d cried for her father, two years ago, and for her brother, not a week later. T’Challa had come back once—Okoye still remembered the wonderful joy of her own surprise. A miracle. But a miracle never struck twice. And in Ramonda’s room, the Queen Mother had dissolved into ash as well, particles of dust hanging in the light.

“Nakia should do it,” Shuri said. Her voice was calm despite the tears rolling down her cheeks. “She’s his wife.”

“But not Wakanda’s queen. That was the condition of their marriage,” Okoye said quietly. “Nakia is a citizen of the world. She will take the suffering of billions rather than millions. You know that has always been her way.”

“What about you?” Shuri sniffed. She hadn’t sounded so much like a child in years—but great merciful Bast, she was just a child. Nineteen was too young for this kind of duty, this kind of suffering.

Any age was too young for this kind of suffering.

“Little sister Shuri,” Okoye said, wiping her tears with both her thumbs. “O, I wish I could take this pain away from you. But I cannot. I am General of the Wakandan Armies. I will remain into that place until the day I die.” Her own throat was tight; her own eyes were burning. “You know that.”

“I can’t do it.”

“I know. I know. But listen to me. You don’t have to make this grief fit in your heart. You don’t have to try to make it hurt less. None of us can, when such things happen.” She tried for a smile. “You only have to carry it with you—and that you can do, because it is the condition of the living. My brave, precious, lovely child.”

Shuri wiped her tears.

“I can’t do it,” she said one last time. But she stood up all the same.

 

The falls were silent. The people were not dancing or singing. Half of the cliff had been left devoid of presence, and Okoye could feel that empty space beating like the cavernous chambers of a stone heart. A mirror with no reflection: half of everything, gone.

Shuri was standing knee-deep in the water, stripped down to her waist, painted grey and white and black. Uri, son of Zuri, raised his arms above her.

“I give you,” he began, “Princess Shuri, daughter of T’Chaka.”

There was no explosion of joy, but a low hum coming from the people’s chest, like the comforting buzz of a swarm of bees. A sound so deep that it could have made the cliff crumble into the water.

T’Challa had been tossed from that cliff, once. Okoye blinked fast to keep that thought away.

“Victory in ritual combat comes by yield or death. If any tribe wishes to put forth a warrior, I now offer a path to the throne…”

He extended his hand towards Shuri, who stood there, so bare and thin, staring back at her people like she dared them to try and take this from her—and also like she hoped to the Gods they would. But all the tribes, one after the other, shook their head and respectfully declined the challenge.

When the hoots and grunts started to come from the cave, Okoye exhaled with relief. She’d been waiting for them. Shuri too—it was obvious: she was not afraid, just stood in the flowing water with her painted face and body.

M’Baku, the Silverback King, came out from the galleries with his people behind him, like he’d come for T’Challa’s crowning. They stood in a semi-circle around Shuri, who faced them, every Gorilla Warrior almost twice her height and width. Little wisp of a girl, standing so strong. Okoye’s heart ached for her.

“The Jabari tribe,” M’Baku said quietly, “will not challenge today.”

Shuri clenched her fists; her body tensed like a bow; electricity seemed to spark in the air all around her.

“Then _why did you come?”_ she yelled.

M’Baku took a step back. Her face was a twisted mask of rage and agony.

“Why did you come? Why are you here? I am the child you complained of, two years ago—not so long a time! Challenge me! Win! Take this from me! I don’t want it!” She was sobbing. “I don’t want it! I don’t want it! I don’t want it!”

M’Baku walked forward with sorrow on his face. He knelt down, in the water, soaking his clothing, and took her in his arms. Shuri clung to him and cried, burying her tears in his white pelt, sinking her fingers in the fur.

He pulled back and whispered something in Shuri’s ear. She looked at him for a long time. Then he got up, stepped back; and she stepped back too, angrily wiping her face with the back of her hand.

The priest Uri seemed uncertain about what to do now. He cast an anxious glance at Okoye, but before she could nod at him to continue, a scream tore through the air, startling everyone who’d been also looking at the priest to know what happened next.

It was Shuri herself—screaming to the skies in defiance and rage. “I challenge!” she shouted, hoarse. “I challenge myself! I challenge my fear! I challenge my grief! I challenge my pain!” She turned to the Wakandan people. “I challenge my childhood in combat and I declare it already dead! I challenge my mourning and you must all challenge it with me!” She raised her hands. “Because _that is the condition of the living!”_

Her people roared in answer, a great cry of life that shook the water.

“I challenge you!” Shuri went on, shouting at the top of her lungs. “I challenge the world! I challenge the great universe! And I challenge the being who destroyed it! I challenge Thanos! I am Shuri, and I challenge Death! _I challenge Death!_ I wage war—war to infinity!”

The Wakandans screamed even louder, shaking the stones of the cliff now, as if the very earth was trembling in approval.

 _“War!”_ Shuri shouted. _“War! War! Endless war! And Wakanda forever!”_

 _“WAKANDA FOREVER!”_ shouted Wakanda with a thousand voices.

 

Shuri drank the heart-shaped herb and was buried in sand by the same children who had once played with the White Wolf—and loved their strange quiet guest, and asked after the battle where he’d gone. Ashes. Ashes. Ashes. Okoye watched, her hand tight on the spear. She would have given anything to go to the Djalia as well and see Ramonda’s smile. See T’Challa. Talk to him one last time.

The ceremony seemed to last for hours on end. Nothing moved. Nothing breathed.

Suddenly Shuri rose from the sand, spluttering and coughing, reaching blindly for the children who hurried to support her. Okoye crouched in front of her.

“My Queen,” she said quietly. “Shuri, Black Panther Shuri, beloved Shuri. You are with me. You are in the land of the living.”

She kept murmuring to her until Shuri’s eyes focused on her; the girl gasped for breath, clinging tight to four or five little hands, children crowding close to anchor her.

“He wasn’t there,” she breathed eventually. Her eyes were wide. “Neither of them were there.”

 

*

 

“Front door’s open. That’s ominous.” He made his weapon twirl in his hands. “Am I going to get murdered?”

_You don’t have to sound so happy about it._

**_Like that can happen anyway._ **

“Lucy, I’m ho-ome! Anybody here?” he called, waltzing from room to room. “Man, this place is a real mausoleum!”

_I think it’s actually a mausoleum._

**_Hey, are those cookies?_ **

“I’m stealing your cookies!” he sing-songed, stepping into the kitchen and shoving his hand into the box. “I have no respect for the dea-ad!” He removed the bottom half of his mask to cram a cookie into his face. “Someone come and stop me!” he went on, spewing crumbs everywhere. “Won’t anybody stop m—”

He’d taken a lot of punishment in his life, but this punch still knocked the air out of him, shoving the half-cookie down his throat. He winced when the wall slammed into his back and cracked his vertebra; two of his ribs caved in and pierced his lung.

“Oh,” he said thickly through the pain, “that’s—” he wheezed, “just _typical,_ guy who can’t get killed gets to die a lot—who cares, right? He’ll get better—”

“Get out.” The voice was low and cold. A shadow loomed over him, blocking the moonlight coming through the window.

“Can I just say I am such a huge fan,” he squeaked, scrabbling at the huge hand now choking the life out of him. “And also you’re even hotter in pers— _ahk…”_

_“Get. Out.”_

“I know how to bring them back,” he wheezed out.

Steve Rogers kept staring at him for a second longer. He looked positively awful. It wasn’t the beard—the beard looked _good._ It was all in the eyes.

His hand slowly opened. “Who the hell are you?”

“Hello, I’m Wade,” he coughed, slipping to the ground, “also, _jeeze,_ let me pick a safeword next time—”

Rogers slowly crouched in front of him. “Talk.”

Wade coughed out a bit of lung tissue and some cookie crumbs. “Hey, do you have any milk?”

Steve Rogers paused for a moment. Then he got up, crossed the dusty kitchen in three steps, took some milk from the refrigerator and poured Wade a glass. That shut him right up—something that didn’t happen often.

“Here.” Rogers gave him the glass. “I’m afraid it’s expired.”

**_So many jokes to make here—_ **

_Save ‘em for less lethal times, champ._

Wade drank the glass without breaking eye contact. By the time he was done, the burning in his body had abated, and his vertebrae had realigned themselves. He reached with his free hand to remove his mask.

Rogers didn’t flinch at the sight of him. He’d probably seen a lot worse in his time, but a pitiful thrill still lit up the puppy corner of Wade’s brain.

“Deadpool,” he said, holding out his hand. “Merc with a mouth. Wade Wilson’s the name. No relation to poor old Samuel.”

Rogers shook his hand, then firmed his grip and pulled Wade to his feet effortlessly.

**_Da-yum._ **

_We’re married._

**_So? Polyamory’s a thing._ **

“Mr. Wilson,” Rogers said flatly. “Let’s hear it.”

“Right. So. Funny story: I can’t die. Well, technically, I _can_ die—you actually did sort of kill me when you slammed me against that wall earlier—and I’m rambling, now. Totally rambling. My bad.”

Rogers could have been carved out of stone. It wasn’t that he was keeping a straight face _despite_ Wade’s antics; he just didn’t care. There wasn’t much life behind his eyes.

“Anyway.” Wade swallowed. “A few days ago I sort of crumbled into ash.”

The stonewall that was Rogers’ expression cracked.

“You came back from _that?”_ he asked, uncertain.

“Yeah.” For a moment there was complete silence in Wade’s brain. He shook his head. “But the thing is—I didn’t come back alone.” He turned round. “Darling! You can come in now.”

“Hi,” said the woman already at the table.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find out on Thursday who the hell that is.


	2. Death

 

 

 

 

 

She had always been there, throughout all of Steve’s existence. He’d just never noticed her before; you do not notice the infinitely familiar. You do not notice the taste of water or the smell of oxygen. Seeing her was like finally finding the warmth he’d desperately sought in Sam’s empty home. A pat on the back from Bucky. A promise to meet again. Tears came to Steve’s eyes for the first time since Peggy’s funeral.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” he mumbled, ashamed.

“Hey, it’s okay, Steve,” she said, and her voice was an old friend’s. Her skin was moon-silver pale, and her hair raven-black. A small spiral was tattooed under one of her eyes, and she wore lots of heavy silver jewelry. Despite her gothic attire, she was the most lively person he’d ever seen, and she didn’t look a day over twenty. “You’ve been through a lot.”

Steve sat down at the table with her.

“You’re Death,” he said. It was just something he knew. It was something anyone would have known, looking at her.

 _“Lady_ Death,” Wilson corrected.

“Just Death.” She smiled. “The lady’s another story.”

“Right. Sorry. I’m feeling kind of disfranchised right now—it’ll pass.” Wilson sat at the table with them.

Steve looked at Death, who gave him a luminous smile. He knew, just like he’d known her name, that she was kind, and that she was merciful, and that if she could have helped them she would have done it already. But he still had to ask.

“Is there nothing you can do?”

She had a skull for a head now, grinning an endless grin. “Do you think I’m happy with what Thanos did? None of us are. It’s not nice being used.”

“Who’s _us?”_

“You guys call it the stones,” she said, human again—she had never ceased to be human—resting her chin in her hand. “It’s a little more complicated than that.”

“Not _that_ complicated,” Wade interjected. “The Stones embodied six different aspects of reality, and you guys also do. As far as backstories go, I’ve heard way more confusing—just look at the X-Men…”

“Very good,” Death smiled.

“Hey, thanks—I don’t even know how I know that,” he confided. “I don’t even really know the word _embody._ I have voices in my head.”

“I know, they sound nice. I like the bold one.”

Wade’s damaged face paled by a fraction. He looked at the mask in his hands like he was considering putting it back on, and said nothing more.

“Wade’s not wrong,” Death went on. “The Stones are the dispassionate, physical phenomenon, and we are… something with a little more heart.” She shrugged. “But still the same thing in essence. The ones who were there when the pub opened; the ones who’ll put the chairs up on the bar when the party’s over.”

“What are you saying?” Steve asked slowly. He was pretty certain he’d gotten it already, but he needed to hear it out loud.

“I’m saying you can make a second Infinity Glove.” Death was looking at him. “But it won’t function exactly like the first one did. And it’ll cost you.”

Steve sounded exhausted to his own ears. “What more could it cost me?”

She smiled at him, so kindly. “You of all people would know, Steve: there’s always something more to lose.”

They were all quiet for a time.

Sam’s house smelled of dust and ash. Steve thought of Bucky, gone in a moment, thought of Sam, and T’Challa, and all the others; and suddenly he felt like he was mourning all the dead people in the world—not just the ones he’d known and lost, not just the billions who had just crumbled into dust, but all the nameless soldiers in the war, in all of the wars since the beginning of civilization, and all the people who’d died before their time, in illness or childbirth or accidents, or even when it _was_ their time—the old ones fading away, all the broken hearts and the grieving families, all the loss, all the mourning through the long trudge of history. The terrible weight of the dead over the living. It hurt so much he couldn’t breathe.

“I’m ready,” he said softly.

It was clear she knew what he meant. She smiled and answered, “That’s not it. Not today.”

And he knew what that meant, too. He wished part of him didn’t feel disappointed. Another fight, then. That was all right. He knew how to fight. It was all he knew.

“Fine.” Steve got up. “Where do we go first?”

“Hold on,” Wade said, getting out his phone, “need to text my wife. _Honey, might die… for a little longer than usual. Don’t wait up…  for dinner.”_ He hesitated, looking between Steve and Death, then added, _“Also, how do you feel… about an open relationship?”_

“First we need to wait seven minutes,” Death said. “Use those to pack a bag.”

Steve almost asked why, then figured he’d find out in seven minutes. He walked out of the kitchen and into Sam’s room.

He’d kept sleeping there, and he hadn’t taken care of himself much, so the room was untidy and the bed was unmade. It was like Sam had just gotten up to go to the bathroom, or get some orange juice from the kitchen. There was a picture of his mother on the nightstand. Steve almost turned to rib him about it, before remembering his voice wouldn’t carry to wherever Sam was now. He couldn’t shake the feeling that all the people he’d lost were just in the other room. Like he could walk through the door and find them just waiting for him. Wondering why he was so pale.

He packed a bag. He wrote a note, then crumpled it. When he got up to leave, his inner clock knew it had been seven minutes—and he was not surprised to find Natasha at the door, blond hair glowing in the moonlight.

“Looks like I got there just in time,” she said simply.

“I thought you were with—”

“Bruce is staying with Pepper. They’re making sure Stark Industries doesn’t fall apart. Not much I can do to help on that front; I have a different skill set.” She smiled. “So I guess I’m going with you.”

Steve was too weak to move. She went to him, held him tight, and he put his arms around her, squeezing, remembering Peggy’s funeral; the strange, hot feeling that coursed through him, something almost like anger. Because Natasha had been kind to him, and kindness made him falter when hardship did not. He resented people being kind to him—more than he resented cruelty. But he just closed his eyes and breathed her in, like he had in the empty church, two years ago.

 “We should go to Wakanda first,” she said.

He disengaged from her arms. “Why?”

“More people might want to join up. And even if they don’t—they should know we’re trying to do something. They deserve to know.”

Steve swallowed.

“And that way if we don’t return,” she shrugged, and God, she looked so tired, “they’ll know we didn’t just vanish too.”

 

*

 

There was a woman waiting in the throne room, barely older than Shuri, with splendid afro hair and smooth dark skin, and an ivory spiral under one of her eyes. Okoye put up her spear.

“Who are you?”

She turned, smiling. “Well, I was challenged. So here I am.”

Shuri froze, grabbing Okoye’s arm.

“Ukufa,” she whispered.

_Death._

Okoye lowered her spear. At the same moment, the sound of a plane was heard from the great terrace. She did not turn to look—a grave oversight, but she couldn’t have turned to save her life, or even to save Shuri’s life. Only when she heard steps did she wrench herself from her own fascination.

“General,” Steve Rogers breathed.

“Oh, wow,” said the wrinkled man walking with him. “Honey, you’re already there!”

“I’m everywhere. That’s kind of my thing.”

 _“Honey?”_ said the Black Widow, who brought up the rear.

“She and I have a special bond,” the wrinkled man explained. “I’m the reason she could even answer the challenge. Dead and then undead. Bridge between both worlds. I was thinking of asking her out for drinks later?”

The Widow just stared at him.

“Yeah,” he said when he realized she wasn’t going to say anything. “Waiting on a text from my wife first, we’ll see how it goes.” He waved at Shuri. “Hi! You look young.”

Shuri straightened up, and Okoye was infinitely proud of her.

“I am the Orphan Queen of Wakanda,” Shuri said. “Black Panther, Guardian to my People, Protector of the Heart-Shaped Herb.” She glanced at Ukufa, then twisted her lips. “And Challenger of Death.”

Ukufa laughed, and it was like silver chimes. “It’s an honor to answer your challenge. Nicest I got in years.”

“What do I need to do now?” Shuri said.

“Nothing,” Steve Rogers intervened. His face was grave. “We’ve just come here to tell you—there may be a way to undo all this. But from what I understand, it’ll be a… difficult journey.”

“You have come to tell us to wait around,” Okoye scowled. “That is typically American.”

“Even more typically Steve," said the Widow, glancing at him.

“No,” pleaded Rogers. “No, that’s not what I…—there will be a price to pay. And I can pay it.” He swallowed and added quietly, “I already did.”

“What I was saying,” the Widow murmured.

“We do not trade in lives!” Okoye said loudly. “Your words, Captain, not mine. Do not tell me again I must wait around to be saved—I will come with you, and pay our share of the price.” She bent her head towards Shuri. “If my _Queen_ allows it.”

Shuri chose her words. “Such a decision… it needs to be freely made.”

“I am not free,” Okoye said, holding her head high again, “and I do not _want_ to be. I am beholden to what I love. My queen, and Wakanda—forever.”

Shuri looked down, hiding a small smile.

“You have my permission,” she said. Her voice trembled, but she did not cry.

Okoye took her in her arms. Shuri held tight in answer, then said, “You have the best of Wakanda’s technology with you.”

“And I will make good use of it.” Okoye looked her in the eye. “Ayo will be your General. M’Baku will be your Chief of Security. My Queen: do not wait for me. Start rebuilding now. Life is the only challenge that death will ever truly accept.”

They hugged again, then Okoye straightened up and slammed her spear twice on the floor. “I am ready.”

“I think we all are,” Rogers murmured.

“Is there no one else who might want to come?” Natasha asked. “What about that raccoon?”

“He’s gone to Missouri,” Shuri informed them. “Said he had to find quills, whatever that means.”

“What about Thor?”

“He left right after the battle,” Rogers answered quietly. “We don’t know where he went.”

A silence fell. One by one, they all looked to Death, who smiled at them.

“You guys are so brave,” she said. “I hope my siblings don’t give you too much trouble.”

“How do we find them?” Rogers asked.

“You’re really lucky. The one who deals with the _space_ part of spacetime actually already lives on Earth. His name is Destruction.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Okoye muttered.

“No, you’ll love him!” Ukufa assured her. “He quit his job some three hundred years ago to live in his own place, with a dog and everything. He tries to paint—and also sculpt, sometimes, I think? But he’s not very good at it... Oh, you’ll see. You just have to find him first.”

“That we can do,” Shuri assured her. “Just give me a face.”

An image unfurled from Ukufa’s hands like a flower. It was a man with long, reddish hair, a beard and an awkward smile. He looked oddly familiar to Okoye’s eyes, though she couldn’t place him right away.

“But—” Rogers said.

“No,” the Black Widow breathed.

“Hey!” the wrinkled man exclaimed. “We know that guy!”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Next chapter on Monday! Comments make Deadpool happy (he can read them) :D


	3. Destruction

 

 

 

 

 

Barton opened the door with a wince.

“Yeah… I had a feeling you guys would come here.”

Rogers and Romanov and Okoye couldn’t move. Wade shouldered past them. “You _asshole!”_ he yelled, pointing.

Death walked in casually and kissed Hawkeye on the cheek. “Hi, Des. You shaved your beard!”

“I haven’t had a beard in forty years,” he said, pained.

A dog bounded out of the apartment to greet the newcomers, then stopped dead and squinted at Death with a suspicious look. The place was messy and not very clean, filled with empty take-out cartons and dust. A grungy-looking couch, a few mediocre paintings left to dry against the wall, and a hand-me-down DVR.

**_Nice. Do you thinks he has Dog Cops on that thing?_ **

_Hold on, we’re still angry._

**_Right._ **

“I thought I _knew_ you. I thought we all knew you!”

“Um,” Barton said. “Actually, I don’t know _you.”_

“Asshole!” Wade repeated.

“Clint.” Romanov sounded shaky. “What is going on?”

“I never lied to you guys,” Barton pleaded. “I just… didn’t say some stuff. I dropped out of the Endless business three hundred years ago. I’m Clint Barton. That’s who I am. I’ve never been anyone else in this lifetime. Look—” He pointed at his hearing aids, “I never even fixed my ears. I let Loki control me that first time around. Remember? I’ve been in this all the way, no compromises, no cheating. I did the good and the bad. I’m an actual person, a normal, regular person…”

“Destruction,” Rogers said flatly. “Is that why you always aim true?”

“That’s practice!” Barton protested. “Lots of practice! I tried hard to get good at—a lot of things.” He deflated. “Destruction does tend to come easier to me.”

For a moment, no one said anything. Then Barton sighed and reached inside his own chest. Rogers and Romanov took a step forward out of sheer horror; Wakandan General Okoye was the only one who didn’t move, just watched.

**_That chick is fucking badass._ **

_I don’t like what’s happening now…_

Blood was spurting around Barton’s fingers, soaking his purple t-shirt. What he pulled out was a glowing blue stone that seemed to take some life out of him; his hair and beard grew incredibly fast, and dark rings carved themselves under his eyes.

**_He’s still hotter than us._ **

_Buddy, anyone’s hotter than us._

“Will you guys shut up,” Wade said impatiently. “I’m watching something.”

Okoye cast him a glance, but said nothing. Barton finished extracting the Space Stone with a small moan of pain.

“There. Pretty okay duplicate, that’s the least I can do for you.” He tried for a smile. “Destruction’s a lot about making space, creating room, moving stuff around. So that should do the trick.”

He didn’t look like Barton at all anymore. He was a completely different person—Wade wondered how no one else had noticed it, because he’d definitely looked like that all along. From another angle. When you squinted. While colorblind.

Romanov looked like he’d just died in front of her. Rogers had no expression on his face.

Wade scooted closer to Death. “Hey, so… This all kind of sucks ass,” he said in an audible murmur. “Not that these guys were super merry before.”

“That’s just the first one,” she answered quietly. “It’s going to get harder.”

She looked straight at him when she talked to him; almost nobody else did that. It made him feel so warm and tingly. Caring wasn’t good for one’s own narrative, he knew. But Death was such a nice person. Made him want to check his texts to see if Vanessa had an opinion on open marriages.

“I’m sorry, Nat,” Destruction told Romanov. “Guess I do still destroy everything I touch, huh? Hard to shake the habit of ten billion years.” He handed her the blue stone. “I think you should have this one. It’s you who paid the most.”

When she took it, the Stone turned into a blue glowing sword. She just looked at it without saying anything.

“Yeah, I’m Destruction, a sword’s my symbol,” he mumbled. “We’re patterns. We’re ideas, brain functions. You guys are gonna have to deal with a lot of symbols.”

“Not a bow?” Okoye asked dryly.

“I said I was committed,” he protested. “Clint Barton had nothing to do with— _has_ nothing to do with—” He ran a hand through his red hair, then sighed. “Do you want to know who the others are?”

“Any help you can give us is welcome,” Rogers said in a steely voice.

Destruction had lost any kind of resemblance with Clint Barton: he was a tall, broad-shouldered man with long red hair and a beard. He also looked helplessly sheepish.

“There’s Death, obviously, but she’s always right there. The ones you’ll want are the others, Destiny, Despair, Desire, Delirium and Dream. All of them can give you a Stone if you get them interested. Just… be ready to bargain.”

**_They all start with a D. Just like you, Wade!_ **

_Not sure where he’d fit in that line-up._

“And where do we find them?” Okoye asked.

“God. I don’t know, I’d have to call them one by one. Most of them aren’t even anywhere, technically speaking…”

“Except Destiny,” said Death helpfully.

Destruction perked up. “That’s right. _He’s_ always in his garden.”

**_Destiny’s a dude?_ **

_Wonder what his Stone is. Reality, maybe?_

Wade’s phone buzzed. He got it out, hoping it was Vanessa, but it was just Weasel asking if he was alive. Typical Weasel—had he already forgotten about the cured-from-death thing? That didn’t even deserve an answer. He pushed his phone back into his pouch belt.

“All right then,” Romanov said in a cold voice.

She turned her back to the being who’d never really been Clint Barton and slashed through the air with her sword. A wound in the very fabric of space opened blue furled lips like the edges of a storm. Through them could be seen a monastery garden under heavy brown clouds, like an old Dutch painting.

“I’m sorry,” Destruction said.

“For what? I don’t know you,” Romanov answered. “Come on, team. Let’s go save half the Universe.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clint was just a little too good at destroying that Helicarrier in A1, if you want my opinion...  
> Kind of a short chapter - but that's why I'm posting twice a week this time around \o/ Thank you for reading!


	4. Intermission

 

 

 

 

 

“Whoa, what the shit?” Wade said as soon as they’d come through the portal, pulling down his red mask. “This isn’t a garden. Unless it’s an _avant-garden._ ”

Steve himself felt a moment of whiplash. They were on another planet for sure _—_ one that looked like a Dali painting. Foreign structures floated in the air, star-shaped ships drifed through a dead sky. Gravity didn't feel the same in his left foot than in his right. Their surroundings were nothing but ruins. The moon itself, a faint white shadow in the pale blue sky, was in _pieces—_ fragments floating apart from each other, tracing a strange deconstructed shape.

For a moment they just took it in, Natasha resting her blue sword on her shoulder.

Steve didn’t want to ask her how she felt about Clint. Just like Bucky’s death, it felt like something that hadn’t truly happened—something that could still be reversed, erased. He just didn’t have the capacity to absorb it right now, so he was crumpling whatever he felt in a ball, pushing it all the way down to his toes. _Unhealthy,_ Sam would’ve scolded. But Sam was dead.

Even if Steve  actually had lost his mind to grief and guilt, even if this last desperate attempt to overturn the tide turned out to be a fantasy, he had to play it out until the end. He needed even the illusion of hope. So they all had to keep going forward.

“Why aren’t we where he sent us?” Natasha asked at last, in a low voice, surveilling the surrealist landscape.

“I’ve been thinking,” Steve answered quietly. “He seemed to imply we could only carry one Stone each. And if that’s the case… We’re going to need more people.”

Okoye nodded. “If we are on our way to the garden of Destiny, it would make sense to arrive not where we intended to go, but where we need to be.”

“Sure, if you say so,” Wade said, looking at his phone. “I wish Death had stuck around. At least long enough to give me her number. And I also wish we had better reception here on—uh—Titan.”

Steve’s head whipped round to look at him. _“Titan?_ Thanos’ home planet?”

“How do you know that?” Natasha asked, frowning.

Wade raised an eyebrow—Steve still didn’t quite get how his mask had _expressions,_ but there you had it. “Um, ‘cause it’s written in the sky? Right there!” He pointed at an empty patch of clouds. “Oh, nope, my bad, it’s gone.”

“Captain,” Okoye said in a low voice, “let’s stay focused.”

Something was moving underneath a fallen ship. Natasha put her guard up; Steve unfolded his shields. Wade kept checking his messages, but his free hand was fingering one of the katanas on his back.

One of the drifting structures in the air reflected a flash of sun into the shadows, hinting at a familiar silhouette. Steve’s heart dropped in his chest like a stone.

“Oh my God.”

The man unfolded painfully, getting to its feet, then stepped out into the light with a hand to his side, raising the other to shield his eyes.

“Nice of you to finally show up,” he said in a hoarse rasp. “Strange said you’d come. Didn’t say _when,_ of course—the guy’s a jerk.”

“Tony,” Steve breathed.

“Rogers. And… some new people. Nice hairdo, Widow.”

_“Tony,”_ Steve repeated, stepping forward. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, dandy. Just this hole in my side. But it’s mostly repaired, I’ll be fine.” He sniffed and ran a hand under his nose. “Did you _seriously_ rip the star off your suit? How dramatic can you get?”

There was ash drifting through the air. A thick layer of it at Tony’s feet, some clinging to his blood-soaked clothes. Steve felt a cold hand squeeze his heart.

“Who was here with you?”

Tony made a gesture of exasperation. “You still don’t listen to—I said _Strange._ Do you even know Strange? And also…” He briskly shook his head. “Hey, you know what—who cares? They’re gone now. But we’re going to get them back. Isn’t that what you’re here to tell me, Man With A Plan?”

“Tony Stark,” Okoye said slowly. “Are you Destiny?”

Everyone stopped.

Steve could have sworn his heart did not beat for a second. But Tony just blinked at them, looking annoyed. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Natasha breathed out. “He’s not.”

“There’s no such thing as _destiny,”_ Tony said, stepping closer. “Don’t you get that it’s all senseless? That the universe is just a big—goddamn—mess of cruelty and—and fucking _chaos—_ and there’s nothing to guarantee there won’t be another fucking universe-ending event, even if we somehow manage to undo our latest colossal fuck-up? _God!”_

“Tony,” Steve said quietly. “Tony, we can fix it.”

_“No, you can’t!”_ Tony suddenly shouted. “No, you fucking can’t! It’s gone from bad to worse from the start! From regular Nazis to fucking aliens to half the world ending—how can you still play the stoic hero when all we've done is lose and lose and _lose?_  Don’t you see we’ve been free falling from the fucking start? And did you seriously _have_ to follow me to the end of the fucking universe, all stalwart and brave, to sell war bonds and tell me to keep my fucking chin up? The war’s over! All the wars are over, Steve. And we fucking _lost!”_

“Bucky’s _dead,”_ Steve ground out.

Tony’s mouth snapped shut.

“So don’t tell me—” Steve was so angry his voice was shaking at the edges. “Don’t _lecture_ me on—”

He stopped himself and took a deep breath. Then another one. Thought of what Bucky would say, if he were there. Nothing at all, probably. He’d just stand back, never making a move to start a fight, just waiting to be pointed at one. Just waiting, until Steve made it inevitable for him, like he’d done all his life. Until Steve dragged him into one fight too many.

There was a painful lump in his throat; he exhaled, and it came out shaky.

“We can fix it,” he repeated. “There’s still a chance. Like you said. That’s why we’re here.”

Tony said nothing. Just looked at him _—_ his dark eyes were as inscrutable as always, his expression caught between irony and grief, in a strange twist of the face. God, they hadn't talked to each other in two years. There was no time to talk about anything, here at the end of the world.

“This is the Space Stone,” Natasha said, hefting her sword. “Well, _a_ Space Stone. Long story short, we’ve got allies who can make copies. We can make a second gauntlet.”

“A _second_ gauntlet?” Tony’s brow furrowed. “I thought the first one came from a lifelong quest. What, are they just selling them a dime a dozen now?”

“Aaaand it’s all thanks to me,” Wade interjected. “Hi. Deadpool’s the name, resurrection’s the game. I got in touch with the first god—her name was Death, and honestly? I think I have a shot with her. Guess she really liked how I tend to die a lot.”

Steve was still caught wishing he could have asked Tony who he’d lost, what death was weighing on him. Wished they could have sat and talked for hours and maybe made up. But—who was he kidding? Neither of them knew how to talk about their grief. And there was no time to try and learn.

“We got the Space Stone from Destruction,” he said slowly—without mentioning exactly what had been destroyed in the process. “And we’re looking for Destiny, now.”

Tony stared at them all for a second. Then he turned around.

“Sure. Yeah. Whatever. Fucking bastard really did have a plan.”

“Do you mean Dr. Strange?”

“MD.” Tony lowered his voice to a mutter. “If _this_ is the good timeline, then it means I’ll get to punch him in the face. Good. All right.” He turned to face Steve again. “But I’m getting the next Stone. We’re not splitting up the band _this_ time, Cap.”

“ _Disagree, Tony.”_

Everyone startled and turned round.

A blue-skinned, bald woman was walking out of the shadows; when she spoke, her voice had a metallic echo.

_“I will be a part of this, or you will go through me.”_

 

*

 

Okoye was not the Black Panther, but she had taken parts in other rituals, enough to know that the creature facing them was not fully alive, and yet fully sentient; her rage washed out of her in waves. Something else emanated from her—something Okoye recognized only too well. It had nearly killed her very recently.

She raised her spear. “Do not come any closer, Sister of Thanos.”

All the others stiffened and stepped close to each other in an instinctive battle formation—except for Deadpool who just stood to the side and looked impressed.

_“It’s ‘daughter’,”_ the woman said in her low hiss of a voice. _“And no one hates my father more than me.”_

“I can relate to that, Neb,” Tony Stark said. Then, grudgingly: “It’s fine. That’s Nebula, she’s… She’s with us.”

“Then why was she standing way over there?” Deadpool inquired.

_“To give the ashes some space.”_

Nobody knew how to answer that, but Okoye understood what she meant. Stark was obviously hanging on to his sanity by one last thread. He must have lost someone terribly important to him—just like the Captain, who’d seen his friend crumble to ash in front of him.

Just like Okoye.

She took her mind off it. No point mourning before they failed. One of the things Stark had said was interesting—she had to keep her mind moving, stay alert.

“You spoke of Dr. Strange,” she told him. “And of timelines.”

“He had the Time Stone. Used it to scan the timelines and said we won in one of them. Only one. So I’m _assuming_ he’d planned all this. Even his own fucking erasure from reality.” He put his hands on his hips. “And he warned me you’d join me here, so, yay. The band _is_ back together. What kind of stupid name are we going to call ourselves this time?”

“I got a few references,” Wade readily offered. “Oh! Oh! What about the _Dream Team?_ You see, it’s funny because—”

“Why a name?” Okoye interrupted sharply. “We are just whoever is left.”

_“If that,”_ Nebula rumbled.

A long silence stretched, broken only by Romanov.

“So what now? How do we find the next guy?”

“If Strange truly had planned this,” Okoye said, “it means we are already walking the paths of the garden of destiny. There’s no need to go anywhere.”

“Well reasoned,” said a paper-thin voice.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Next chapter Monday. ^^


	5. Destiny

 

 

 

 

 

Titan’s landscape swiveled like a theatre’s set, giving way to a winding maze of a garden stretching under a dull brown sky. A tall silhouette was standing there in priest robes, holding a book that was chained to his wrist. As far as Okoye could see, the pages were blank.

“Hey, that’s a comic,” Deadpool said, twisting his neck to see. “Are you just walking around reading leather-bound comics, my man? I wanna say _mood.”_

“I am the eldest of the Endless,” the shape said in his chrysalis of a voice. “I am Destiny.”

“Great. Then you probably know why we’re here,” Romanov said.

A noncommittal hum answered her. The cyborg woman stepped forward. _“Do you have a Stone to give?”_

“Indeed, I do.” His tone was slow and dull like he was reading his lines, droning on. “What is fate, but irresistible motion? What is fate, but entropy marching on? The Power stone is mine to give.”

“Cool beans,” Stark said tightly. “Hand it over.”

 _“I said it will be mine,”_ Nebula growled.

“The Stone will belong to whoever dares to read a page from the Cosmic Log,” Destiny said, tapping at his book. “What is fate, but a constantly-written story?”

A trial, then. Death and Destruction had warned them their siblings might get capricious. Okoye had no doubt they were all prepared to pay the price—which might prove a problem since nobody wanted to be left out of the quest.

“So whoever will look in that book will see the future? All right, I’m in,” Stark said.

 _“As I made clear—”_ Nebula rumbled again.

“Both of you, _think,”_ Okoye spat. “We need to be clever. Destruction warned us we would deal with symbolic trials. Each god will ask for something different; let us play our respective strengths.”

“Well said,” Romanov placed.

“I _am_ playing my strengths, dear—whatever your name is, I don’t think we’ve met, I’m sorry,” Stark said. “I mean, hello? Futurist’s in my job description.”

“You shouldn’t be in such a hurry to get to the future,” Rogers murmured.

They all paused to look at him.

He shrugged, looking pensively at Destiny. “And I don’t think it’s about future, anyway. It’s about _fate._ Read this book and you’ll know what you’re fated to be. What kind of person you’ve become. The way your upbringing shaped you. What you are, what you can’t help doing. What you can’t avoid being. Am I getting close?”

There was no answer, but the cloaked figure opened his unchained hand in a gesture of invitation.

An uncomfortable silence spread out. Stark and Nebula were no longer clamoring to read from the book. Neither was Deadpool, who was gamely attempting to text his wife from another planet. Romanov looked hesitant—maybe relieved she was already carrying a Stone.

Rogers’ jaw was set. He took a breath—

“Oh, Glory to Bast,” Okoye sighed. “I’ll do it.”

Rogers startled like he’d never expected someone else to step forward before he could. Romanov looked at her. “Are you sure?”

“Am I sure?” Okoye echoed dryly. “I have always been faithful to what I know is right. I do not fear a truthful reflection of my self. Elder: I will read from your log.”

“So be it," Destiny said, and—

 

Okoye blinked, looking around her.

The brown Dutch-painted garden was gone. Destiny was no longer a cloaked, tall figure, but an old man with tar-black wrinkled skin and a halo of white frizzling hair. His eyes and mouth were permanently twisted by age, the lines on his face baked deep by the sun. His hand was still chained, but the chain led to his lip disc now. There stood a storyteller.

“O, child,” he said in a hoarse, creaky voice. “Come—come listen to the story.”

Okoye was a little girl; she ran barefoot in the dirt to sit next to the old man. The banyan tree spread its branches wide above his head, blue sky slowly absorbing the colors of sunset. She had always loved story time.

“How well you were raised,” the old man said. “How well you’ve walked the gardens of destiny. Oh, yes, yes. Breaking all your oaths but one! Such incredible independence of mind…”

“What?” she protested. “Baba, I’m not an oathbreaker.”

“Oh, you don’t like the story already. That’s a shame. I only tell true stories under the banyan—and you said you would listen.” He laughed, toothless. “Not an oathbreaker, you say? But you will swear an oath to your husband W’Kabi—to stand by his side no matter what. And you will break it.”

She froze.

“You will swear an oath to your dearest friend T’Challa, to protect and support him. And you will break it. You will swear an oath to your battle-sister Nakia, to stand by her side against the rule of men, and you will break it. When they need it the most, they will not receive your help.”

Okoye said nothing. The blood had drawn from her face.

“And your country!” the old man went on. “O, the trials of your country!”

“I have never broken my oath to my country!” she choked out.

“No, my dear, dear girl. But your country is an oathbreaker in itself! Don’t you know… O, the world tribe has needed Wakanda for years and years. And they only watched them suffer, they only watched them die…”

“Our ancestors,” she articulated, “had sworn to hide.”

“And did you respect _that_ oath?” the old man said, grinning like he’d caught her red-handed. “My sweet child, your country is not hidden anymore. It opened its gates wide for the enemy. For the colonizers first, the ravagers next. Your country’s earth was turned over by a thousand claws; your country convulses in ruins and ash. And that ash is half of your people…”

He leaned towards her.

“Did you not know that your husband was dead?”

Okoye stopped breathing. “What?” 

“Have you not cared about him, in his prison? The Border tribe leader, your love, your half—did you even think to ask? Poor, poor W’Kabi. What you no longer see, you forget forever. Did you fancy yourself a great warrior? A reliable friend, a noble lover? You’re nothing but an oathbreaker, cold-hearted, cruel little _girl…”_

“You are not Destiny!” she shouted, jumping to her feet.

She was a grown woman, clad in armor, armed with her spear and her might and her fury: she towered over the wizened old man.

“You are the opposite of fate! You are Doubt!”

And she stabbed him in his hollow gut, right below the ribs.

No blood came; no tension, no expression of pain. She stood there, breathing hard, eyes wide. Her hand on the spear was shaking.

The old man smiled, slowly, slowly; suddenly his wrinkles did not seem sinister, but radiant, like the rays around the sun in a child’s drawing. “Doubt is the _companion_ of fate,” he said. “Without doubt, there is no freedom within one’s destiny. Keep doubting, my dear child.”

Okoye blinked, and gasped, and realized she’d been crumpled in the dirt, on her knees, breathing in harsh sobs for the past two minutes.

 

The others crowded around her, hesitant to touch her. Slowly, she looked down at her hands pressed to her heart, and pulled them away from her body. Nestled in her fingers was a glowing purple stone.

Another blink, and it turned into a small black book, written in glowing purple ink: her book of prayers to Bast.

“What,” she mumbled, hoarse with tears. “Have I always had this?”

Rogers helped her get up without a word, letting go as soon as he saw she could stand.

“You okay?” Deadpool said, peering over her shoulder at the little book. “That was some nasty stuff he said to you.”

“What are you talking about?” Stark said. “He didn’t say anything to her. They were both standing there and she started to—” He flicked some fingers at her and scowled, rather than risking a word.

“You have to learn how to read between the lines,” Deadpool advised him. “Or even, you know, just read the actual lines.”

“Sure,” Stark said, “and _who_ are you again?”

The brief intermission had allowed Okoye to master herself. Doubt was gnawing at her, and she even doubted whether _that_ was a good or a bad thing. _Have I always had this?_ Yes—of course doubt had always been in her heart. It was the hidden price of honor and duty.

Right?

She took a deep breath, then closed her hand on the little book. “Two down,” she said, meeting Rogers’ eyes.

He smiled at her with an earnestness she hadn’t expected. “Four to go.”

“See,” Romanov said in a tense voice. “Breezy.” She cast a wary glance towards Destiny, who seemed completely disinterested in them now, a monk slowly walking the alleys of his garden. “Just need to figure out where to go next.”

“I have read the book. I think I know—” Okoye's mouth snapped shut.  _I think I know._

No. She did know. Doubt did not belong in her mouth. It did _not._ She would not let it pervade her in this way.

”I know where,” she said, and reached for Romanov's hand.

Romanov looked surprised, but readily gave it. Only when she felt her touch did Okoye realize how cold her whole body had gotten. Natasha gave her the shadow of a smile, and squeezed her hand harder.

Okoye thought of Shuri back on Earth, and took a fortifying breath.

“Come on,” she said. “Stark, Nebula. You are needed. Your turn might—” She clenched her jaw. "Your turn _will_ come. There are six of us now—and six stones to wield.”

Nebula took Okoye’s other hand, Rogers took hers, and Stark took his, which made him look like he’d just bitten into a lemon. Okoye had thought herself strong enough to withstand the scrutiny of fate, and, well—she hadn’t been wrong, had she?

 _(Had_ she? She felt anxiety squeeze at her chest, then shook her head. _No, no._ )

But Stark—just the way he looked, touching Rogers’ skin, made it obvious he would have been consumed heart and soul by a frank portrayal of himself as he feared himself to be. The ashes blowing in the wind still had no name, but Okoye could feel they had belonged to someone very young.

Suddenly she realized she didn’t want to know more about them: there was too much pain and worry in her heart already.

“Let’s go,” she said, and Natasha slashed at reality with her sword.

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Desire

 

 

 

 

 

**_Oh my God._ **

“This is… different,” Stark said.

**_Oh my God._ **

“That’s one word for it,” Rogers mumbled.

**OH. MY. _GOD._**

_Don’t scream like that, you’ll give us a migraine—_

**_THIS IS A SPACE ORGY. HOLD ME. OH MY FUCKING GOD._ **

Wade couldn’t recognize most of the genders present, not to mention the species, but one thing was for certain: all they had in mind was sex. The next minute, he became aware that he himself was getting a little hot under the collar. Spandex was a _terrible_ idea for anyone with a dick. Whose idea was that, anyway? Probably some guy who drew people without feet.

“Well, it’s lucky we’re in pairs, at least we’ll keep it human.” He eyed Nebula. “Mostly human. Hello there, gorgeous.”

“What on earth do you mean?” Okoye said dryly—and then, as if someone had punched the air out of her: _“Oh.”_

Despite the slimy and frankly disturbing mass of living bodies squirming together in front of him, Wade had never been so aroused in his life. It made it hard to concentrate; one of the voices in his head had given up the ghost already, reduced to inarticulate moans and grunts. He tried very hard to redistribute his thoughts into the more lucid channels of his brain.

**_THE SEX POLLEN TROPE! IT’S THE SEX POLLEN TROPE!_ **

“Shut up,” he said, “this isn’t sex pollen, it’s—”

“Desire,” Stark said hoarsely.

Romanov’s pale face had become considerably rosier; she raised her badass space sword in an obvious attempt to cut their way out of there. “We have to leave this place—”

 _“No,”_ Nebula hissed. _“We will stay. This is what we’ve come for.”_

Romanov went still. Then she put her sword over her back again. The blue glow was making her look even more murderous; her hair was beginning to stick to her temples with gleaming sweat. “Fine. But I’m not sleeping with you.”

“What about me?” Wade offered, solicitous. “I’m rated four stars out of five in my wife’s diary. And I don’t mind being killed during sex.”

“Thanks, I’m good.”

“This is bullshit,” Stark said, breathing hard. “Who says desire is just about sex? I’ve had _tremendous_ amounts of sex and let me tell you: it gets old.”

“Tremendous?” said a beautiful voice.

Wade looked around—and blinked.

**_Hoo wee, person of indeterminate gender!_ **

The silhouette standing in the middle of their circle was tall and as pale-skinned as Death, with golden eyes and short dark hair. They were wearing a suit jacket over nothing, complete with dark slacks and polished gold shoes. Their long, androgynous silhouette was the living embodiment of intersex. Wade was in _love._

**_Of course you’re in love, that’s Desire!_ **

“Why are _you_ the one holding up?” he wondered at himself. “The other dude always sounds so much more grounded. Bit sarcastic, sure, but—”

**_Yeah, I think that’s why—he needed to let off steam. Can we fuck someone already?_ **

“Hold on—now just hold on a minute,” he said. “Vanessa never did greenlight the whole non-monogamous idea. And besides, I think Stark’s right!”

 _“Who is he talking to?”_ Nebula growled.

“He’s gone insane,” Stark said. “That’s what desire does to you—”

“Excuse you, I was crazy _way_ before we even thought of coming here,” Wade protested. “I was saying that Stark is right. Desire isn’t all sex. That beautiful person is fucking with us!” He paused. “Not literally. Yet. Hopefully.”

“Oh, I like you,” Desire purred. “Fine, darling, I’ll dial it down.”

The writhing, squirming mass of orgy somehow receded into the distance and a door slammed shut, encasing them in a white box of nothing.

Everyone took a collective breath.

“Well done,” Wade said, patting Stark’s back. Then he turned to Rogers, who stood frozen. “Hey, Cap? Everything cool? R-rating come as a shock to you?”

Rogers put the back of his hand over his mouth, pressing hard. “Sorry. I’m here.”

“He’s a virgin,” Stark said snidely.

“I’m—I’m not a _virgin,”_ Rogers spluttered, taken aback.

“Finally,” Stark crowed. “Rhodey owes me twenty bucks.” Then his expression wavered. “Rhodes—is he—”

“Now, now, _now,”_ Desire said, bringing everyone’s attention back to them—their voice could not physically be ignored, which felt amazing but also—sort of rapey. “A lady with a space sword and another with a book of power—isn’t that nice! My sigil isn’t that creative, I’m afraid. It’s just a little silver heart.”

They produced it with a flourish and a sharp grin. Something glowed orange inside the translucent silver, quietly pulsating.

“Do you know what that is?”

“That’s you getting straight to the point,” Stark said. “Gotta say, after Destiny, that’s refreshing.”

“Oh, Destiny’s a bore. I’m much more fun.” Another grin. “For a given definition of the word.”

 _“That’s the Soul Stone,”_ Nebula growled.

“Huh,” Wade said. “I guess that makes… sense?”

_Oh man. The Soul Stone. This isn’t going to be fun._

“Hey, smart guy, you’re back! Had a good time?”

_Let’s not talk about it._

**_Why not? Were_ ** **you _a virgin?_**

“What’s wrong? It was just sex. Weird alien sex, but when has that ever—”

_It wasn’t just sex. I took the brunt of it for you. The rest of it. It was the real deal—our deepest desire._

**_Really?_ **

“Wow, so what’s that all about?”

_That’s the kind of thing I’m here to bury._

*

Steve closed his eyes hard.

He knew he had always wanted too much—a different body, a greater purpose. And then after he’d lost everything, he’d wanted to get it all back, to return to simpler times. And _then_ it had all narrowed down to one thing: from the moment Steve had seen Bucky on the street in DC, muzzled and constricted in his own clothes, a prisoner of his own mind, tortured and twisted and broken but alive, _alive,_ Steve had wanted nothing more, nothing else than to save him. He’d kept fighting for the world, but he’d known, after that, that the world would always come second to Bucky.

So Desire’s visions had not exactly come as a surprise.

The orgy room had made it very clear that Steve wanted Bucky in any way— _every_ way—he could have him. But Steve wasn’t troubled by what he’d seen. It had always been hidden in a corner of his mind. He’d never wanted to look directly at it. Just had never seemed worth risking what they had over it.

 _It’s all right,_ he thought. _I’m going to get him back. And he’ll never have to know._

He opened his eyes, and saw that Tony looked a little pale. Wade was frowning and muttering to himself; Natasha and Okoye were shaken, but not too badly—though of course they were already carrying a stone each, out of the race. As for Nebula, she was very composed.

But she still said: _“I’m not taking this one.”_

Steve stepped forward. “It’s all right,” he said, holding out his hand. “I can have it.”

This time, he felt certain it was his turn. Nobody else was stepping forward.

Desire grinned at him—they were a beautiful creature, but Steve didn’t want them. He didn’t want anyone but Bucky. And he already knew he couldn’t have him. So that was all right. He could take that hit—he’d been taking it every day, for a long time, and he’d tried to make his peace with it, content with a few visits a year, getting used to the heartache at the thought that Bucky was thriving and happy on the other side of the world. Making a life for himself, like he had in Romania. He hadn’t really needed Steve in a long while, had he? Or maybe he’d never needed him at all.

“Oh, honey,” Desire said. “I don’t think you want to take this one. I don’t think _anybody_ does.”

“I’m telling you, it’s fine.”

“Don’t you know the price of a Soul Stone?” They laughed. “No, of course you don’t. I _love_ human hubris—I can get so _creative_ in my punishments.”

“I said I was ready.”

“Yes, you’ll do anything to save your Bucky,” Desire said. “The love of your life. I’ve chiseled that one pretty thoroughly.”

Someone twitched at Steve’s right. It could have been Tony. Steve breathed out. Was that how it was? His deepest desire exposed? Well, that was all right, too. He would’ve rather kept it to himself, but he was not ashamed.

“Your Bucky,” Desire repeated, _“oh,_ this is just delightful. Just like a tragedy. Did you know Shakespeare cut a deal with one of my brothers? Everyone in the family dabbles in desire, really. My twin sister does, too. You’ll meet her next, probably; you’ve known her intimately for a long while. She’s what desire does to you…”

“Is this going somewhere?”

Desire’s eyes blazed with something dangerous. “I could just eat you,” they said, “right up. Repression is so very attractive to me, _Captain._ And that manly stoicism… _hm._ Lost everything you cared about, three, no—four times around, and you’re still standing tall. Who _wouldn’t_ want to kneel for you?”

“Again,” Steve said. “Is this going somewhere?”

“Soldiers,” they sighed. “Always in a hurry to blow themselves up.” They put a hand on their hip in a practiced supermodel pose. “All right, let’s cut to the chase. You know what the price is. It’s a price Thanos already paid. What you love.”

“Bucky,” Steve echoed. “I know. And I already know I can’t have him. I told you—it’s fine.”

Tony was definitely the one at his right side. He was now keeping very still. Steve didn’t want to look at him—what was the use? Siberia felt like it had happened so long ago. And Bucky was—

Bucky was dead. It was all right to tell himself it was only temporary, but whenever Steve stopped to think about it, everything inside him went cold because _Bucky was dead._ To bring him back, Steve would have given up anything. A nonexistent chance at love wasn’t even that big of a sacrifice.

 _“You still don’t understand,”_ Nebula growled, _“and nobody will spell it out for you, so I will.”_

Steve turned to her. “What?”

_“Thanos killed Gamora. The one daughter—the one person he loved. That’s how he got the first Soul Stone. If you want a copy, you won’t be able to bring your ‘Bucky’ back. Ever.”_

There was a short silence.

 _“All the others will rise from the ashes,”_ she went on in her metallic rasp, _“but not him. This is what you’re giving up.”_

It took all of Steve’s willpower to stay upright.

 _We don’t trade lives,_ a voice pleaded desperately inside him—but it was too late for that. They had traded lives—traded, and invariably lost both halves of the trade. Vision, _and_ half of the world. Trying to save both: losing both.

Bucky was already lost. Steve could bring everyone else back. Sam—he could bring back _Sam_. Oh—Sam’s empty house, like a hole in his heart—and Sam’s friendship, Sam’s kindness, Sam’s solidity in a senseless world. Sam’s grudging support, Sam’s help in saving Bucky, even though he’d feared him at first. T’Challa—T’Challa who had only just begun to change the world, who’d given Bucky his freedom and two precious years of peace, who was going to save lives, to share his immense wealth—something nobody else had ever done, not on such a scale, nobody else, ever. And Wanda and _half the world,_ god fucking damn it to hell, _half the universe._

Erskine’s finger tapping his chest, his dying breath in a whisper: not a perfect soldier, but a good man. _A good man._

He had to do this. He already knew it. It always ended up this way. He’d never expected it to be different this time around, not really. He’d never expected a happy ending. Tony was right. _From bad to worse._ Loss, loss, always more loss.

_A good man._

When he reached out, his fingers were shaking so badly he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t immediately drop the pulsating heart when he received it.

So Bucky was dead. He was really dead. Steve had fought and fought and lost all he could lose, and it hadn’t been enough. Bucky had crumbled to ash with a single, confused _Steve?_ The next moment he was gone. He hadn’t even _understood_ what was happening to him—the ash had started on his left arm; maybe he thought it had been damaged in the fight. He was calling Steve to show him—he was puzzled, not afraid: he hadn’t _known_ it was his last second of life. _He didn’t even know he was dead_.

Steve hadn’t known either. It had taken him hours to begin to believe it. For almost a whole day he hadn’t felt grief. For almost a whole day he’d felt nothing at all. Surely Sam was in the next room, surely T’Challa was half-way around the world—and surely Bucky was there _somewhere,_ like he’d been from the start, for all of Steve’s life, even when he’d thought he was gone _._ Because if he wasn’t—if he wasn’t—

Steve couldn’t see through his tears. He wiped them, then forced his hand to stop shaking. “I—” somehow his voice almost didn’t shake, “I will take—”

 _“Jesus Christ—”_ And Tony stomped in front of him and snatched the heart from Desire’s hand.

Steve startled and cried out and and instinctively tried to get it back, but Tony stepped away. “Don’t! Do _not,”_ he said, raising a finger in warning. “Too late. You’re too late! It’s mine now.”

“Tony—”

“Oh my God, don’t you know I hate martyrs? And I don’t care how hypocritical it is! I can’t stand any more people sacrificing themselves for the greater good! _Oh, Mr. Stark, I only wanted to help!_ Well he didn’t fucking help, _did he_ , because _he fucking died!”_

“Tony,” Steve said, “Tony, whoever you’re talking about, you can’t abandon—”

“Half of the universe fucking died. We failed so badly I can’t bear to fail anyone any more—and that’s coming from a goddamn master of fucking failure.” Tony squeezed the glass heart until it broke in his hand, cutting deeply at his fingers. The orange stone glowed even through his fist; he squeezed it so hard blood welled out of the cuts. “I am giving it up. My greatest desire. You probably know what that is,” he growled at Desire, “but _you guys_ don’t know.” He looked around the white room. “And it’s going to _stay_ that way.”

“You’re just adorable,” Desire grinned. “Got a lot of desire in your heart. _Really_ want your darling Captain to think highly of you.”

“Rub everyone’s faces in it, why don’t you,” Tony said through gritted teeth. His fist was bleeding heavily. “Are you trying to shame me? I’m way past that.”

Desire stepped towards him. He froze, but stood his ground. They took Tony’s chin in their long-fingered hand.

“All that want. All that frustration. You’re quite the morsel, too.”

Suddenly their mouth was on Tony’s; his eyes went wide and he snatched himself away, wiping his lips on the back of his hand. Steve and Natasha instinctively moved closer to him.

“Ever heard the word ‘creep’? Hands _off,”_ Tony snapped at Desire. “I’m still fucking engaged.”

“Oh, are you? I can change that.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Okoye said. “All of us, _now.”_

Natasha’s sword cut through space one more time, and Steve’s vision was lost in a swathe of blue.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo, the chapter went through! I'm moving apartments so I'm between Internet connections atm (it suuucks). Sorry for the delay in answering comments, I'll catch 'em all eventually. And THANK YOU for commenting - it feeds me \o/


	7. Intermission

 

 

 

 

 

At first, Steve couldn’t recognize where they’d landed; he was still reeling and so disoriented it could have been anywhere.

“Isle of Skye, Scotland?” Wade asked, looking up at the sky for some reason. “I thought we’d be jumping to another alien world. Keep the plot going.”

_“It’s alien to me,”_ Nebula rasped.

“Fair point,” he said. “So… why Scotland, Widow? My God, is Nessie involved in all this somehow?”

“We’re taking a break,” Natasha explained, sheathing her sword at her belt.

_“What if something attacks us?”_ Nebula asked, frowning.

“There’s nothing here but sheep and fog. It’s the quietest place I could think of. We could use a breather.”

Tony was nowhere in sight. Steve looked around and finally spotted him, sitting on the edge of the cliff, staring down into the grey ocean.

“Good call,” he said quietly.

“Go talk to him. We’ll wait,” Okoye said, sitting down on a rock and getting out her book of prayers. “In the meantime, we can figure out where to go next.”

Steve gave her a short nod, then slowly walked to the cliff’s edge.

Tony’s hand was still clenched tight around the glass shards, quietly bleeding in the grass. Steve sat next to him, took his wrist and unfolded his fingers, one after the other. Tony was looking at the horizon now, straight ahead.

After a moment he grinded out, “I owed you one.”

Steve said nothing, just finished opening Tony’s clenched fist. The stone wasn’t there, and Steve looked up at him in slight alarm, but before he could say anything, Tony gave a tight shake of his head.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got it on me.”

Steve felt that something was wrong, but decided not to push and began to carefully pick out the glass shards instead, one by one. Tony flinched every time, a full-body clench that twisted his face, but didn’t make a sound; he just kept talking.

“It’s fitting,” he said, “Desire, for me—it’s fitting. I’m not like you. I don’t repress. I’ve always given in to whatever I wanted. And look how our last fight ended.”

“It’s done, Tony,” Steve said quietly. “We don’t have to rehash it.”

“See? This is exactly what I’m talking about. God knows I’m not a model of mental health, but you—you’re even worse than me. Bottling it all up. Let me _tell you_ how it ended. With you on the run, and me at home with all my resources. _Vae victis—_ is that how you pronounce it? It’s Latin, it means—”

_“Woe to the vanquished._ I know.”

“It mostly means that the victors get to write the story. Everyone said I won. The media certainly agreed. But you know, between you and me? I think _you_ won. I think you can’t ever be wrong. I think you can’t ever lose.”

“I lost my last fight pretty significantly,” Steve said dryly.

Tony cracked up. It was an awful sound, but it was still laughter. Then he breathed out—Steve had picked the last of the glass shards out of his hand—and a sob caught in his throat.

“Those ashes on Titan…” Steve began.

“Just a kid,” Tony said in a horribly hollow voice. “He’ll come back. Let’s not talk about it.”

Steve could have pointed out the hypocrisy, but decided to just shut the hell up instead. A few minutes passed in the salted wind.

“Thank you, Tony,” he said at last.

“Fuck you,” Tony answered, without heat. “How dare you send me a flip phone in the mail?”

“Did you—Tony, did you lose Pepper? Or Pepper’s love? Because of the Soul Stone? Or—”

Steve paused, struck. _Your darling Captain,_ Desire had said.

“Anything—to do with me?” he asked, stumbling on the words.

Tony gave him a _look_. “What? No.” Then he blinked. “I mean—seriously, _what?_ Are you actually asking me if I— _no!_ And—God, I _told_ you that you wouldn’t get to find out. Stop asking!”

“Now who’s repressing things?”

“Jesus Christ—”

“You’re right, it can’t have been about me, anyway,” Steve said. “We’ve never even liked each other that much.”

It was meant as a joke—half a joke, and risky; but Tony did grunt a laugh again, and stopped being so tense.

“My point was,” he said tightly, “that it’s _better._ For me to have it. Better that way—for everyone—it’s not like I—” then his voice got so hoarse he had to stop speaking.

Steve didn’t know what to say. Tony, who’d never been good with silences, looked down at his hand and frowned.

“Where did you even _find_ those bandages?”

_“Pouch belt,”_ Wade yelled from the other side of the field. _“You can fit anything in those pouches!”_

Tony stiffened. “Jesus! Can they _hear_ us from over there?”

“Wade’s just a little special,” Steve reassured him. “I don’t exactly know in what _way_ , but—I think he’s got a form of clairvoyance and it drove him half-insane.”

“Yeah, that checks out.” Tony finally exhaled deeply, and met his eyes. “Look. Rogers. Will you do something for me?”

“I think I’m the one who owes you, now.” Steve dredged up a smile. “So, sure.”

“You have to tell him.”

Steve went very still. “Excuse me?”

“We’re going to get them back. We’re going to get them all back. You already had a second chance and what did you do with it? Nothing.” His eyes were stormy and dark. “So when you get him back: _tell him.”_

“What good will that do?” Steve said, defensive. “And why do you even care?”

“Nuh-uh! You don’t get to question it. You owe me. So when the—the _love of your fucking life—_ comes back, you’re going to use your words for once in your miserable existence, or _else_.” Tony’s hand flexed under the bandage. “And promise me, while you’re at it. Go on! I want you to promise.”

Steve shook his head, irritated. “Whatever makes you happy, Tony.”

“You condescending fuck. _Promise me.”_

“I really don’t see how that’s any of your business.” Steve was silent for a while, then blew air out through his nose. “Fine. If you’re that committed to making me look like a complete fool in front of my oldest friend. I promise. Happy?”

Tony looked at him for a long while. A half-smile pulled at his lips. “Nah.”

“What?”

“You won’t go through with it,” he said. “You don’t have the guts.”

“Guess we’ll see,” Steve said—because he couldn’t help himself when someone threw a challenge at him. He snapped his mouth shut. Some buttons Tony definitely still knew how to push.

 

*

 

Okoye kept an eye on the small silhouettes of Stark and Rogers, sitting side by side on the edge of the cliff. Even from afar, she could see that Stark’s wounded hand was no longer bleeding.

“They’ve reconciled,” she said. “The price for these stones is not always bad.”

“Tell that to Stark,” Natasha answered. “Or to yourself.”

“My trial’s made me wiser. As all trials do.”

“The wisdom _I_ got for mine? Could’ve gone and died without it.” Natasha gave a half-smile, then sat down on a stone.

Deadpool was wandering in the grass, focused on his phone. Probably still trying to ask his wife whether he could sleep with other people. The robot woman Nebula was standing a few feet away, looking around mistrustfully at this new environment.

“Come and sit with us, sister,” Okoye called.

Nebula startled badly, then turned around. Her ink-black eyes were wide. _“Sister?”_

“Sister,” Okoye repeated. “Come.”

Hesitantly, like she feared a trap, Nebula shuffled to their two-person circle and kicked a rock close to them. She sat on it and peered at the bag Natasha had slipped from her back.

“We should eat something,” Natasha explained. “It’s been a long day.”

“And we only have half of the stones,” Okoye approved, getting out food of her own. (Trials of Destiny? Without a blink. American seasoning? Certainly not.)

Nebula, after waiting for permission, tasted a bit of each. She chewed, then spat; then took some more, chewed, and swallowed. Her throat clicked when she did, and Okoye could plainly see that most—if not all—of her body was mechanical.

“So you are Thanos’ daughter,” Okoye said.

_“In name only,”_ Nebula answered, chewing. _“He raised us in his madness. He loved my sister Gamora, and only her. I was a tool who did not perform well enough; it was only because he’d invested so many parts in me that he didn’t kill me sooner.”_

“Was your deepest desire to kill him?” Natasha asked.

Nebula didn’t seem offended by the question; in fact, she gave the first smile Okoye had seen of her. _“You’ve guessed well. I couldn’t ever let go of it, not for all the riches in the world. Shall I ask for yours?”_

“To avoid my greatest fear,” Okoye said. “Exile.”

Natasha said nothing for a long time. “To avoid mine,” she murmured at last. “Slavery.”

They kept eating in silence for a while. Deadpool was helplessly tapping at his phone. The little device must be too primitive to connect to a foreign network.

“Did you know Rogers was in love with his White Wolf?” Okoye asked.

Nebula pulled the face of one who didn’t know all the parties discussed. Natasha smiled, looking up at Rogers in the distance. “It’s crossed my mind,” she admitted, “but I could never bring myself to ask him. I figured if I set him up on enough inane dates, he’d end up snapping and just blurting it out.”

Okoye grinned, and Nebula smiled a bit to show that she’d understood the spirit, if not the letter, of the joke.

“I can tease him about it when this is all over. Something to look forward to.” Natasha turned towards Nebula. “What about you? What will you do after you’ve killed Thanos?”

Nebula tilted her head to the side; her neck clicked. _“After,”_ she repeated. _“You are awfully optimistic.”_

“You can’t say we haven’t got the element of surprise.”

_“After,”_ Nebula repeated, dreamily now. Then she shrugged. _“I don’t know. I suppose…”_

She looked up at the two men on the cliff.

_“I suppose I would like to remain with Stark. For a while.”_

“Why?” Natasha said, looking genuinely surprised.

_“I feel responsible for him. We’ve spent the days following Thanos’ victory with only each other for company. It was…”_ She bit off a huge bite of a protein bar. _“You can imagine how it was.”_

Okoye did not have to imagine it: she only had to remember Wakanda after its king had crumbled into ash. The night and the morning after the battle, when the sunshine felt like a mockery and a lie. The look in Shuri’s eyes.

She pushed the pain away. It was not real. Soon, none of it would be real anymore.

But—could it truly happen? she wondered, for the thousandth time. Could they really unmake it? It just seemed like so _much._ So much death, so much grief—could it ever be unmade?

T’Challa was gone. She had been fighting for breath, not knowing the gravity of her wounds, not knowing whether she was unharmed or dying—and T’Challa had come to set her world upright again, grabbing her hand, pulling her up, with pressing worry on his face, but not panic. Never panic. He had been growing into such a magnificent king.

_Up, General! This is no place to die._ And just as he said this—gone. Without glory, or even awareness. She had called and called for him even though she’d seen him crumble—as if maybe, if she called him enough, she could reverse it, make it _unhappen,_ have him come back—even though she already knew that he was—he was—

_Do not slip,_ Okoye sternly told herself. _Do not slip! Do not doubt! Let your grief hang in limbo: that is where half your people’s fate hangs still!_

_“Heads up,”_ Nebula rasped suddenly.

When Okoye looked up, she thought she was herself in limbo. The fog had gotten thicker and thicker while they spoke. Natasha and Nebula were looking around, alert; Deadpool was trotting back towards them, pocketing his phone.

“No network,” he said. “You know what? I think the plot’s coming to us this time.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and commenting! Next chapter on Thursday :D


	8. Despair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO PLEASE READ THIS NOTE, tw for self-harm in this chapter. (Those of you who've read The Sandman know why.)

 

 

 

 

 

“Tony! Steve! Something’s coming!” Natasha shouted.

They turned around, startled, and got to their feet. For a moment Okoye was afraid they would vanish in the fog—but it didn’t happen. They stepped close and huddled as a group, instinctively reaching for each other, looking for warmth inside the icy cloud.

“Is this, like, a natural thing that happens?” Deadpool asked. “Because it might actually explain a few things about the Scots.”

“I don’t think this is Scotland anymore,” Natasha said.

_“Then where?”_ Nebula whispered.

“Hmm.” Deadpool squinted at the invisible horizon. “Sorry, it’s white on white. Can’t read a thing.”

Rogers was standing with his back very straight. His eyes fell on Okoye.

“You can feel it too, can’t you?” he said quietly. “You already know.”

“Yes,” Okoye murmured back, raising her spear. “Despair.”

Natasha charged up her shockers with a whine. Stark found himself suddenly clad in bright red-and-gold armor. Deadpool made exaggerated motions of awe about it—ceasing only when Okoye graced him with an eyeroll. Nebula did nothing outwardly, but her entire being thrummed and clicked.

The fog got ever thicker, until it was almost as though they were back in Desire’s white box. _My twin sister,_ Desire had said. Okoye braced herself for a long-limbed, golden-eyed clone.

Then a silhouette trotted out of the void.

It was a short, obese woman, completely naked, yet not truly indecent—covered by her own folds of fat. Her greasy hair was pulled in a short bun; her teeth were irregular and grey, just like her morbid, spotted skin. On her finger was a hooked ring she used to tear her own flesh, seemingly without any pain, almost like a nervous habit.

“So you’ve all come,” she croaked. Even her voice was crooked and wilted. But she didn’t seem aggressive, or even particularly malevolent. “It’s a terrible thing, what Thanos has done. Terrible, and beautiful. Such perfect expressions of despair you all are. Each in a different way _.”_

She had dark circles under her eyes.

“You especially, Captain Rogers.”

Rogers, strangely, did not seem repulsed by her. He gave her a polite nod when he heard his name, then looked up at something Okoye hadn’t seen yet—an arrangement of mirrors suspended in the fog. Each showed a different person in the throes of despair.

One of them was Thor. The god who’d overturned the tide and dealt a mortal blow to the Titan—all for nothing. He was sitting on a block of iron under a dying star.

Okoye’s eyes widened, but she said nothing, because Rogers had said nothing either, though he’d obviously noticed. He was looking at Despair again.

“I had no idea I was on your radar, ma’am.”

That made her laugh—and it wasn’t a pleasant sound. “You’ve been mine for so long,” she said, “yet you keep enduring more. So much loss. There is a beauty in it. Don’t wince, now—I know mortals feel it as well. Do you not enjoy tragedies?”

Rogers huffed. “I guess we do, at that.”

“Your sibling did mention Shakespeare,” Natasha said in a low voice.

“Oh, it was not me he struck a deal with.” She positioned her hook over her arm, as if looking for a place to sink it in. “I am not much for creation.”

_“What is your price?”_ Nebula said abruptly. _“You’ve come to us. You know why we’re here.”_

“I _am_ Desire’s twin sister,” Despair said, tearing her belly with the hook. The cuts did not close, simply bled; Okoye’s stomach turned just seeing it. “To want something so badly, to have it for a time, and then to lose it—that is how despair happens. You need to _want,_ first. I am… what comes next. _”_

“Oh, no,” Stark interjected, sarcasm dripping off his every syllable. “Will we have to give up on our greatest desire? Whatever will we do?”

“Tony,” Rogers said warningly.

“No, no, no,” gargled Despair, ripping her cheek. “Desire, Despair, two sides of the same coin. I’ve just said. Whoever takes my gift will be _granted_ their greatest wish.”

For a moment, nobody moved.

“Welp!” Deadpool yelled, “I’ll take it, don’t mind if I do—”

“Stop, fool,” Okoye growled, slapping her spear across his stomach. “Think about what she just said. To obtain your greatest wish doesn’t mean you’ll get to keep it. Doesn’t mean you won’t get it in a horribly mangled way. Doesn’t mean you won’t lose it instantly.”

“Huh,” Deadpool said, tilting his head to the side. “I think… I still wanna take it. I’d kill for Mexican food right now.”

“Your greatest wish is _Mexican food?”_ Stark asked.

“Could be, for all I know.”

_“You have the Time Stone,”_ Nebula rumbled at Despair. _“Don’t you?”_

Stark and Deadpool stopped their antics; Natasha and Rogers turned to look at Nebula, whose dark eyes flitted back at them.

_“The Time Stone alone would be powerful enough to undo what Thanos did. It’s the one I’ll take. No one will stop me from achieving my goal—not even your failure,”_ she told them all.

“Thanks for the show of trust,” Deadpool said, annoyed.

“Neb,” Stark said, “are you sure? Think about what Okoye just said.”

_“I’ve heard her. I cannot think of a single way to poison the gift of Thanos’ death. I know this is a gamble—but a gamble can also be won.”_

“Girl who gambles against despair,” the goddess smiled, showing her grey teeth. “People like you—they are the most beautiful in the end. It’s a gamble for me too. Maybe you’ll hang in my gallery—maybe you won’t. Double or nothing.”

“You _do_ realize you’re giving us hope here,” Deadpool somehow felt compelled to add.

“Mm. Yes. Isn’t hope a component of despair? A building block. A necessity. This is something you all know.”

Her hook tore at her flesh again: she reached inside the wound—making Okoye wince—and pulled out a shining green stone.

“Time,” she said. “You were right. Despair needs the vertiginous abyss of time. The single direction of the flow, unimpeachable. Lost chances, lost opportunities. Regret and remorse. No going back.”

Nebula accepted the bloodied stone, and watched as it became liquid to morph into a hooked ring around her own finger.

“I could’ve taken it,” Rogers said quietly.

_“Your wish had a thousand chances to go awry,”_ Nebula said, without looking away from her ring. _“Don’t worry, martyr—your time will come.”_

Despair twisted her hook into her flesh. “Yes,” she said in her slow, heavy voice, “it will.”

Then she turned and walked away, puttering along her gallery, straightening up portraits of helplessness, shock and attempted suicide, living windows opening on hopeless misery.

“Let us get away from that awful woman,” Okoye shuddered.

“She wasn’t awful.” Rogers looked at her receding form. “She understood exactly how I felt. She even gave it value. That was nice.”

“Yeah—better get him away from this place,” Natasha mumbled, ripping the air open.

“Wait,” Okoye protested, “we don’t even know where to go this time!”

“Of course we do. Didn’t you see the mirrors?” Natasha raised an eyebrow at her. “We’re going to find Thor.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and commenting, see you on Monday! :D


	9. Delirium

 

 

 

 

 

The blue edges of the universe parted on a dark room full of giant machinery. Clambering out of the gate dead last, Wade tripped on a pipe, unfortunately fell right onto something sharp, died for a few minutes, then got back up with a gargle. Looking up at the arched ceiling, he felt an ominous shiver go up and down his spine.

**_Either we haven’t digested those chimichangas as well as we thought…_ **

“Or something serious is about to happen. Spider-sense!”

_Dude, you’re not Spider-Man._

“Close enough. Red suit, snarky wit, awesome abs. In another franchise, we could’ve been lovers.” He looked around and realized that his few minutes of death had been enough for him to get behind the times. “What the shit—is that Thor? Have they already found Thor?”

The team was helping him stand up, talking to him, and resolution was creeping back into the line of his (massive, muscular, magnificent) shoulders.  

“They’ve found him! They’re already explaining everything to him!”

_That’s a lot of redundant dialogue out of the way._

“Fucking writers,” Wade mumbled. Another shiver went up his spine, definitely worse than the first. He elected to ignore it, and sauntered forward. “Despair liked this guy, too, huh? He was hung in her special gallery…”

**_Dirty joke alert._ **

_Now who’s ruining the mood?_

“C’mon, guys, keep it quiet. They’re having an intense moment over there. Oh, by the way—” Wade put his hands around his mouth and shouted: “You can’t sit with us!”

All the others looked up at him. Nebula, Rogers and Thor seemed merely puzzled, but Okoye, Stark and Romanov all had various expressions ranging from indignant to appalled. Thor squinted to see him better, then did the universal head tilt for _is he with you?_

“I’m serious!” Wade said, spreading his arms. “He can’t sit with us, no matter how sexy and seductive he is—table’s full. Are you expecting me to give up my chair? No way, José! There are six stones, six gods, and six of us…”

“Not six gods,” Thor called out in response. “Seven.”

Butterflies fluttered in Wade’s stomach. That _voice,_ rumbly and low as thunder. Oh God, jelly legs, need to squeal. That was the real Thor—the real deal.

“You are very physically attractive,” he yelled.

“Thank you,” Thor answered blankly. He was actually looking quite dire, what with all the soot and grime. And blood. And bruises.

_You know that only makes him hotter._

**_So we want to bang Thor! Is that the deepest desire you’re hiding from us?_ **

_No._

**_Tell us what it is. Come oooon…_ **

_No._

“Also, what do you mean, seven gods?” Wade went on. “I mean, unless I lost some fingers—it happened to me before—I counted six.”

“I don’t know who you are,” Thor said, “but shut up and let me explain.”

Wade could almost _feel_ the little hearts fly out the top of his head. He loved a man with authority.

“The seventh god is Death, of course,” Thor went on.

“Death?” The hearts popped out of existence. “I love Death, but what’s she got to do with all this? She’s the catalyzer. The guide. The Obi-Wan—or is it the Yoda?”

“Exactly,” Thor said in his lovely deep voice. “The catalyzer.”

Wade’s eyes drifted away—he had to strain them a little, because they kept wanting to go back and linger over those biceps—and wandered over a glove shape in the dark, massive and metal.

“Oh,” he said. “Ohhhh, the _gauntlet!_ We need something to wield all the stones at once! I totally forgot about that!”

“And I can do it,” Thor said somberly. “Though it will bring back none of the people I lost.”

Rogers got close enough to put a hand on his shoulder. Thor gave him the shadow of a smile. He looked exhausted on a soul-deep level. Yeah—Death probably suited the poor guy.

It was such a sad thought Wade decided to wander around for a while. They were clearly about to use this giant forge to forge some giant glove-like thing, and he would honestly rather try to find some people to kill—he was really bored. And antsy. For some reason.

_We shouldn’t do that._

**_What? Kill people? But that’s fun!_ **

No answer. Wade frowned. Usually-level-headed-yet-sarcastic guy was being _unusually_ ominous. And here was the shiver, back again.

Despair had found them, he reasoned. They’d begun to attract the Endless to them. So maybe the pattern would continue…

“Patterns,” said a girl in his ear, her weight falling on his back.

Wade yelped and turned around like a dog chasing his own tail.

“Patterns suck. Except the patterns on a starry night, when the stars change place when they think you’re not looking. Don’t you think that’s nice? Not as nice as tasting the noise of—oof!”

Wade had thrown her off and whirled round with his katanas out.

_Run. Run. Run **.**_

**_What? Why? She seems nice!_ **

“Oh hey,” the girl grinned, “you’re three people. That’s funny. One time I was seventeen people but one of them was sad so I looked up the word twinkle in a dictionary and. Wait. No. I think that’s two halves of a different story. Or is it a quarter and a third?”

“You’re probably Delirium,” Wade said, pulling up his mask.

She clapped her hands at the sight of him. “I can’t believe you’re pulling out your face for me and it’s not even the second time we’ve ever met. It’s the very first. That is the nicest kindest thing anyone’s ever done for me. Do you want someone to go mad? I can make them mad for you. I can convince them they’re covered with bugs that keep crawling all over them day and night.”

_Run. I said fucking r—_

“Oop,” she said. “That one wasn’t very nice, was he? You’re better off without him.”

Wade blinked at her. “What?”

She just smiled at him. She was a skinny teenage girl, with white-blond hair badly dyed in blue and pink and orange, dressed in a lot of grunge-looking mesh clothing.

**_He’s gone. Holy crap, he’s gone._ **

“He had a secret,” Delirium said. “Now it’s mine! That’s weird, though, it’s something you already know. How can something you already know be a secret?”

**_I changed my mind. Maybe he was right. We should get away from—_ **

“Oop,” she said again, “there, that’s better. You’re all set now. Nice and cinematic. Hey, Mr. Wrinkles—wanna know your deepest, most greatest desire in the world?”

Wade didn’t move. Fear was keeping him rooted to the spot; his brain was working overtime to make sure his third and last consciousness wouldn’t be ripped out of him too.

“I’d—rather—know yours?” he tried.

“That’s so _funny,”_ she said. “That’s so _funny!_ Nobody’s ever asked me that. I think my greatest desire’s a strawberry ice cream. Sometimes it’s nice to invent new flavors like regrets and telephone and the specific feeling you feel when you make love for the third time of your life. But strawberry’s nice too.”

“It sure is.” Wade took a step back. Then he froze again. What was he doing? He couldn’t lead her to them. This was his Stone, wasn’t it? The one he had to carry. Delirium. Wasn’t it just textbook perfect for him?

He wished he hadn’t been so lucid about it.

“Hey,” he said, “would you mind giving me your Stone? I’m—I’m guessing it’s the Mind Stone.”

“You’re _so_ orderly in your brain now,” she said. “Kind of boring. I could make you seventeen people too.”

“Some other time, maybe? Right now I’m really feeling that Stone thing. Y’know?”

“Oh, sure, here, I can give it away,” she said. “I made it with a headache and the sound of a cat’s feet and some habanero peppers. You can have it. Take it!”

She pulled it out of her hair and threw it at him. It was a swirl of colors and sounds; when Wade held them in his hands, they coalesced into a bright yellow stone.

“I’m the one who’ll pay the price because today is Opposite Day!” she said. “And the price will be telling you a secret! Here it comes and since it’s Opposite Day it’s actually your own secret.” She rose to her tiptoes and whispered in his ear: _“Your wife’s crumbled into ash but you keep texting her anyway and your greatest wish is oh please if she’d only just text back.”_

*

 

“Wade,” Steve said. “Wade. Wake up. Deadpool.”

He stirred and groaned. In his fist was a yellow glow.

_“That’s… the Mind Stone,”_ Nebula said. _“Where did he find it?”_

“I doubt he just _found_ it. Wade?”

He sat up. The look on his face was empty and confused.

“Are you all right?” He didn’t seem to understand, so Steve pointed at his hand. “What did you pay for this?”

“Oh,” he said. He looked at the glowing stone. “Oh. Right. Not much.”

He slowly pushed to get up.

“We should go back to the others. See if they’re done with the catalyzer.”

He pulled his mask down. They watched him walk away.

_“He is usually weirder,”_ Nebula said. _“And I find_ that _weird.”_

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oop


	10. Intermission

 

 

 

 

 

Thor reminded Okoye of T’Challa, in some ways. He was a somber man who wore traces of much brighter moods in the lines of his face. Of better days, gone. Smudges of soot darkened his clothing and his hair, traced the impressive curves of his muscular arms and shoulders; static crackled in the air around him like a halo, but the most striking thing about him were his eyes—one blue, and one gold.

“I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting your king,” he told her when she introduced herself. “But I’m sure I will, very soon.”

Royal grace. Okoye liked that in a man.

Stark was on the other side of the room, carefully examining the dwarves’ equipment; the others had gone in search of Wilson. Okoye and Thor sat on the edge of a gigantic iron crucible. He stretched out his long legs to stare at the dwarf star through the great diamond-glass window.

“Captain Rogers said you were a god,” Okoye said. “Do you know anything about the Endless? Could you intercede in our favor?”

“Sadly, no.” His smile was forlorn. “I am a god by mortals' standards, but they are gods by mine. I know of their existence—but I never expected to be involved with them.” He looked around the quiet, dead forge. “Of course, many things have happened that no one expected.”

Okoye weighed her words, then decided to speak them. “You said no one you’d lost would come back.”

“Thanos killed my people with his bare hands,” Thor said shortly. “Snapped my brother’s neck in front of me. That cannot be fixed.”

“Why not? The gauntlet grants an infinite power.”

The look he gave her was almost frightened.

“Didn’t you see?” he asked in a low voice. “Weren’t you close enough to see what happened to the gauntlet, when Thanos used it?”

Okoye prodded the painful knot of jumbled memories in her mind—which reminded her of Destruction and Despair pulling the stones from their very flesh. She had to do something similar to remember anything about the dreadful seconds following the disappearance of half her people.

She actually _had_ seen Thanos, through the tangled bushes while she fought for breath. He’d been holding his left hand high. And the gauntlet…

“It was damaged,” she said slowly. “White hot.”

“Yes. Dealing so much death was almost too much, even for an object of such power.” Thor exhaled. “Resurrecting even just one person, however… It would take an infinitely greater toll. Split the universe in half. Exhaust it all. No—what’s gone is gone.”

“But those who crumbled into ash are different,” Okoye went on consideringly, pieces coming together. Shuri had told her. Shuri had _seen it._ “They’re not in the afterlife.”

Thor looked surprised to hear her say so. “Indeed, no. They’ve been annihilated out of the cycle—body and soul. Their mass, their spirit, all vanished from the universe, without any hope for reincarnation or afterlife. This is an imbalance. It begs to be restored.”

“I see.” Okoye gave him a long look. “I am very sorry for your loss.”

Thor somehow managed to look small. “Thank you.”

“You will be welcome in Wakanda, when this is all over. Should you be in want of a home.”

He looked up, then gave her something closer to a true smile. “Thank you,” he said again. “I’ll remember it.”

“We found him,” Rogers called from the other side of the forge.

They both looked over their shoulder. Rogers, Natasha and Nebula were bringing back Deadpool, who looked different in a subtle way—like he’d been replaced by another person. On another day, it would have set off twelve different alarms in the back of Okoye’s head, but right now it was just par for the course.

A yellow light pulsed in his closed fist.

“Glory to Bast,” she said, standing up. “Is that—”

“The Mind Stone,” Thor said, getting to his feet.

“What?” Stark called, clapping shut the apparatus he’d been using to study the forge. “Did he just find it on the ground?”

“Okay, can we all move on?” Deadpool said irritatedly from behind his mask. “Storyline’s over. I’m _fine.”_

Nobody seemed convinced, but he was walking and talking and not in obvious emotional distress; all they could do was to take him at his word.

“Well—all right—does anyone here hold the Power Stone?” Thor asked.

“I do,” Okoye answered.

He turned to her. “Really? How lucky we are.”

“Luck had little to do with it.”

“Of this I have no doubt,” he said with a little bow of deference. “I only meant our hopes would have been dashed, had it been the one still missing.”

The others were getting closer—Stark devoid of armor again, looking frazzled but determined; Rogers and Natasha keeping close to each other in a subtle show of support; Nebula’s liquid black eyes never losing their focus; and Deadpool silent and eerie like a red ghost, mask down.

The end was close. It seemed so sudden, when they’d lost so much on their journey. It was amazing, Okoye thought suddenly, how far one could go when there was hope. What one could endure.

She took out her book of prayer and opened it slowly. Instead of the pages written in glowing violet ink was the Stone itself, nestled in its little case of leather. She took it out and held it in her closed fist.

“What do you need me to do with it?”

“Power the forge,” Thor answered succinctly. “It’s usually powered by the dwarf star outside, but part of the system’s broken. And the owner’s turned to ash. I’ve been trying to find a way to keep the star’s eye open and forge the tool at the same time…”

“Hold on,” Rogers said. “You were planning to try this from the moment the cull happened? Why didn’t you tell any of us? Why did you just leave?”

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“Because I didn’t know how to get any of the Stones,” Thor said eventually. “I figured the quest might take millenia. To let you know that your loved ones would return, but that you wouldn’t be alive to see them…” He shrugged. “It seemed cruel.”

Rogers said nothing. He was a very hard man to read at times. The others remained equally silent, though their faces betrayed a bit more emotion; Stark in particular looked like he could have used a drink, followed by a good night’s sleep.

“General Okoye,” Thor said. “If you please.”

Okoye stepped in front of the star’s eye—she could see where the beam had to be directed. She raised her first, holding the Stone, and braced herself.

“It might kill you,” Thor said quietly.

“I figured,” she answered, and wished for the Stone to come to life. 

A violet beam dashed from it and crashed into the forge. Okoye felt a strange energy seep into her fingers, burrowing in her veins, and suddenly wondered if she could do this.

_Doubt._

She shook her head hard, grinding her teeth, screwing her eyes shut. If she did die, it would be in service of Wakanda. So be it. So be it. The energy licked up her spine, rippled through her nerves, made strange-shaped forms dance under her eyelids. Was this how it felt to drink from the heart-shaped herb?

She opened her eyes, knowing they burned violet. Thor was throwing blocks of iron into the forge for them to melt—though of course they must not be iron, but something much more precious. Okoye felt her whole body begin to beat like a heart. It did not feel awful. But maybe death did not feel awful. Maybe T’Challa had felt no pain.

She closed her eyes again.

 _“General,”_ said a soft voice in her ear. _“This is no place to die.”_

A shout was ripped from her throat—it burned, suddenly, it burned everywhere, and she opened her eyes, forcing herself to look at the melting metal, to see it turn to liquid, and even then she waited, just another minute, to make sure, to make _sure,_ even though Thor was telling her to stop, then shouting at her to stop, just another minute to make sure her weakness would not mean the world’s failure—and then she let go.

Thor held her up, the way a soldier braces another soldier. For this, she made a promise not just of hospitality, but also of friendship to him.

“Thank you,” he whispered, “thank you, it’s done, thank you.”

Natasha came closer and helped her sit—the way a woman helps another woman. It was good to have them here. It was good to be here, and to attempt something. _We may win,_ Okoye thought fiercely. Her pores were smoking, an odd purple smoke. _I am not dead. We may yet win._

 _“Sister,”_ Nebula said. _“You’ve done it. Rest, now.”_

Okoye closed her eyes, and rested.

*

“Captain,” Thor said while Natasha and Nebula took Okoye to a corner without debris, “a hand, please.”

Steve was almost certain Thor didn’t actually need him, but appreciated the opportunity to help. Together, they physically lifted one side of the crucible so the molten metal would trickle into the mold, slow like honey.

“Do you already own the Reality Stone?” Thor asked as they put it back down.

“No. It’s actually the only one we’re missing, now.”

_“What?”_

Steve blinked at him. “What’s wrong?”

“I thought the Time Stone would be last!” Thor took a step away from the forge, almost forgetting about it. “If we have the Time Stone—that’s enough to undo everything! There is no need to assemble them all—we can use it now!”

 _“No,”_ Nebula hissed from Okoye’s side. _“I have the Time Stone, and I will use it only as a last resort. We will go forward. All the way to Thanos’ death.”_

“She’s right. What good would it do,” Steve said, “to undo everything only for it to happen again?”

“There are many things I should like to undo!” Thor protested. His eyes were too bright. “Loki—Loki’s death, for one!”

“Loki?” Steve said warily. 

“You do not know,” Thor said quickly, “the last time you’ve seen him—the harm he’s caused—I _know._ But—he was good. In the end, after everything, he really was. He turned against Thanos. He died to save me. He promised the sun would shine on us again. He was—he was _good.”_

He swallowed thickly.

“I can bring him back. And when it’s all set to rights, I can accomplish the rest again—forge Stormbreaker and hit Thanos through the head on my first strike!” He was almost pleading now. “If we have this chance…”

“We don’t have it,” Tony said.

They turned to him.

“I’m sorry.” He looked pained. “I know how it feels. Believe me, I know. But _this_ is the timeline where we win. If we go back and change it… Something will happen. You won’t be able to forge your weapon, or you’ll get killed before you can even reach Thanos… _Something._ Dr. Strange was an ass, but he had no reason to lie. We have to see this through to the end. We can’t go back.”

For a moment, Steve thought Thor would protest again, or rage, or bargain, or beg.

But his shoulders slumped in defeat; he slowly nodded, and went back to the forge to watch the molten iron flow. Maybe so they couldn’t see the look on his face.

Steve noticed Tony coming closer and stopped him. “Give him a moment, Tony.”

“No, I will. I am. I just—I’ve been thinking.”

“This can’t be good.”

“Oh, look, we’re joking again. Wonderful.” Tony scowled. “Only took the end of the world to get back on speaking terms.”

He was nervously playing with something underneath his shirt, rubbing and tapping in a very familiar motion. Steve frowned.

There was light beating through the cloth.

He felt something cold shiver down his spine. “Tony? What is that?”

“Nothing, what do you—hey, hey, whoa!” he yelled when Steve grabbed the hem of his shirt and tried to pull it up. “Hands off, Captain—we’re both in _very_ committed relationships—”

Steve managed to wrench up his shirt and froze in horror. The ARC reactor was back, except it was heart-shaped, like a grotesque parody of itself, and glowing orange instead of blue.

Tony averted his eyes. “It was a glass heart,” he said quietly. “A _heart,_ Steve.”

Destruction had told them they’d be dealing with symbols. Steve suddenly wondered what the Time Stone would have turned into if _he’d_ gotten it, and was fleetingly glad he’d never have to know. Tony nervously pulled his shirt back down.

“Was that your greatest desire?” Steve asked quietly. “To never experience something like that again?”

“Tony Stark’s selfish, news at five. And with that baby in again… Yeah, that’s retirement for me.” He swallowed convulsively. “I could do it ten years ago. Wasn’t easy, already hurt, but I had the stamina. Not anymore. Breathing’s hard, ribs are out of alignment. Shrapnel’s back, too, of course.” The corner of his eye twitched. “I think that’s the worst part. Knowing that in the end, despite everything else I tried to build, Iron Man was still the thing I wouldn’t give up. Still my greatest dream. All this talk about building a family—and the Spider-kid looking up to me. If he only knew. Deep down I’ve only ever thought about myself, huh?”

“Tony—”

“Oh, please, save it. God, I wish you hadn’t seen me without a shirt. Already have enough issues as it is. Did I mention how annoying it is that you don’t get older?”

“You’re not _selfish._ You wanted to keep being able to save people, you—”

“Save it,” Tony repeated, looking down. “Just—please. It’s done now. And I’m fine. Look at me. Standing up, not even bleeding, all good.”

An awkward silence stretched. Steve felt so sorry for Tony he didn’t know what to say.

“What were you trying to tell me?” he managed eventually. “About the Soul Stone?”

“I didn’t…” Tony zipped up his hoodie for good measure. “I didn’t even think that we might be able to use the Stones individually. Don’t know why, since Romanov’s been doing it from the start. Guess I’ve been distracted. My point is, the Space Stone’s being put to good use, the Power Stone, too. Lady Terminator won’t use the Time Stone, and we know that’s for the best. Mind Stone’s useless to us and its owner is, too—still staring at a blank wall over there. Reality Stone… I guess we’re not there yet.”

Steve just looked at Tony, waiting.

“The Soul Stone,” Tony said. “Don’t you want to know what it does?”

“No,” Steve said firmly.

“I kind of do. Thor obviously has some goodbyes to make. And—” Tony’s hand closed on his wrist. “If this fails,” he said, speaking low and fast, “if we don’t make it, if we don’t succeed—you won’t get another chance to talk to _him.”_

Steve wrenched himself free. “I can’t _believe_ you.”

“Oh, come _on,_ Rogers, don’t be a fucking—”

“It’s not even the fact that you want to do this,” Steve said. “It’s that you’re using Bucky to force my hand—as if you needed my permission anyway! Jesus Christ, Tony!”

“See?” he almost yelled in return. _“This is why—_ this is why I need to take that chance. I need to talk to Howard and tell him just how badly he fucked up. Fucked _me_ up. For God’s sake—I need to talk to _Mom._ Because otherwise, when your pal fucking comes back from the dead, I can’t guarantee I won’t want to kill him again!”

For a moment Steve wanted to hit him, but he mastered the urge just in time and took a good look at him.

He knew Tony had a lot of self-hatred—to the point of swooping in and taking the Soul Stone for himself. He’d tried to kill Bucky to hurt Steve; now he was trying to resurrect him to hurt himself. With a massive effort, Steve forced his anger to recede. Remembered what he’d just seen, Tony’s mangled chest with a block of metal and glass stuck between his ribs, how horribly afraid he must have been to feel it there, knowing it would stay forever this time. All this progress, the long and grueling surgery that had terrified him, the years of effort and physical therapy to get his breathing and muscle tissue back into shape—all of that, gone into smoke.

“You don’t mean any of that,” he said quietly. “I know.”

“Want to fucking _bet?”_ Tony growled, venomous. “Because I could give you a run for your—”

“Let’s use the Stone.”

Tony’s mouth clicked shut. Steve exhaled.

“Let’s do it. It’s important to you.”

“What about you,” Tony said tightly. “What about _you.”_

He really needed Steve to do it, too. Needed Steve to do the same thing he did, so he wouldn’t twist himself in knots over whether Steve had judged the act to be beneath him. Steve worked his jaw. Part of him desperately wanted to see Bucky—to talk to him—now, now, _now._ But…

“You won’t be able to do it,” Thor rumbled.

They turned to him.

“All the people who’ve turned to ash. Their soul is destroyed as well. The Stone won’t help you.”

“Jesus Christ,” Tony hissed. “Of _course._ Because nothing ever—”

“That’s all right,” Steve said. “I’ll see him. When we get them all back.” He swallowed. “I’ll see him then.”

Tony’s eyes lingered on him for a while; then he looked at Thor. “What about you, big guy? Want to risk it?”

“I—yes,” Thor said in a vulnerable voice that sounded heartbreaking coming from him. “Loki. Please.”

Steve looked around. “Better go somewhere more private.”

*

The Soul Stone seemed as easy to use as the Power Stone had been: Tony just held out his fist, eyes wide, and whispered “Come on, then. Come say hi, you city-wrecking bastard.”

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then:

_“I was hoping for a nobler incantation.”_

The god’s silhouette rose, haloed in orange, smirking the way Steve remembered. Seeing him brought back no good memories. Tony was tense beside him, his free hand coming to clench around the casing of his reactor. But as soon as his brother coalesced into shape, Thor got such a look on his face that it broke Steve’s heart all over again. He resolved not to say anything—hoping Tony was making the same resolution.

“Brother,” Thor said, strangled, stepping forward. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

 _“Sorry, why?”_ Loki was grinning wide. He was translucent, hair curling into wisps of smoke. _“I am the one who betrayed you—one last, fatal time. Forgotten already?”_

“You didn’t betray me. You saved me.” Thor’s cheeks were wet with tears. “I only wish I could’ve saved you in turn...”

 _“Gods, no. Better for me to leave on a high note, slain by a formidable enemy. Excellent ode material.”_ Loki scratched his ethereal nose. _“Had I stuck around, I would’ve inevitably thrown you to the wolves again. Lost all of my good credit. Build a statue for me, will you?”_

Thor laughed wetly. “I will.”

_“Even bigger than the first. And the helmet—don’t forget the helmet.”_

“I promise. I promise.”

Loki’s smile had trouble holding. _“I am sorry, too,”_ he said. _“We could’ve had more time.”_

“We never have enough time.” Thor swallowed thickly, then made a shaky gesture towards his neck. “Were you. Did he. When it.”

_“Are you trying to ask me if it hurt? Me and my flair for the dramatic. I didn’t feel a thing.”_

This time Thor’s laugh was really just a sob.

“Is there nothing to be done?” he pleaded. “You’ve returned twice already. And—you are talking to me now—you still exist _somewhere_ —is there really nothing…”

 _“Nothing to be done? You mean with the Gauntlet?”_ Loki’s eyebrow raised. _“What—did you want to bump me up the reincarnation list? We both know it is a tad beyond even the Gauntlet’s powers, brother. Unfortunately for me.”_ He shrugged. _“Even if I had a plan, I wouldn’t tell you, anyway. You always do ruin everything.”_

“Hey,” Thor said.

_“You know, this is very gratifying, seeing you brought so low. I always knew you’d be nothing without me.”_

_“Hey,”_ Thor repeated, attempting gruff—though his voice was still strangled and wet. “I am perfectly fine without you.”

 _“Is that so?”_ A second thin, intangible eyebrow raised; Loki’s mask of sarcasm was trembling ever so slightly, his eyes a bit too bright. _“Then act like it, you wimp.”_

And he was gone.

 

Tony cleared his throat. “Charming as always.”

Thor exhaled shakily. “Thank you. I cannot tell you—” He wiped his eyes again. “Thank you.”

There was a long, miserable silence. Then a hissing noise drew Steve’s eyes up.

“The crucible,” he said. “The gauntlet—”

“Damn it.” Thor straightened up. “Damn it! I hope we haven’t missed the window—”

They all hurried back to the middle of the great room, making their way through metal scrap and debris. Steve ducked under something that looked like a giant helmet, took a hard turn, and suddenly ran straight into someone he hadn’t seen.

“Ow—” He blinked. “Wade?”

“Hi.” And Wade rammed his katana straight through the middle of Steve's chest.

Steve blinked. Then coughed. Blood came up his throat and dripped out of his mouth.

“Sorry, bud,” Wade said. “You know what it’s like, having someone in your head. Or maybe you don’t. Either way, we’re both out of time.”

 

 

 

 

 


	11. Dream

 

 

 

 

Steve’s footprints were filling with blood.

He didn’t know for how long he’d been walking. Or where he was, at that. A desolate plain stretched all around him, under a hollow cloudless sky, parchment-yellow. He looked down at his hand, with the idea that he should be holding something, but his palm was empty. Hadn’t someone given him something, just now?

When he looked back up, there was a rickety old house standing ahead, crooked and dark like a fairy tale shack. This imagery didn’t speak to him; he felt like he’d been placed into someone else’s mind. But a house meant people, so he walked on, hoping to get directions, even though he had no idea where he was trying to go.

He was a few dozen feet from the house when the front door suddenly banged open and a short balding man with weepy eyes ran out, breathing harsh and fast. Before he could reach the stone-stepping path that led to the mailbox, a meat cleaver flew out the door after him and buried itself in the middle of his back, stopping him dead.

Steve leaped forward and caught him just before he fell.

“Hey,” he said, bringing him down, “hey, hey, it’s all right. Just breathe. Okay? Breathe.” He looked around wildly. “Who—”

“Oh,” the man moaned. “It’s p-par for the course.” He was wheezing; the cleaver must have hit his lung. “You’re n-not from here.”

 _“Who are you talking to, you sponge-wit button-burster?”_ came a voice from the inside of the house.

“V-visitor,” the dying man called back, as if this was all perfectly normal indeed. Blood bubbled at the corner of his lips.

“Who’s that? The one who attacked you?” Steve asked, wildly confused.

The man’s weeping eyes focused on him. “That’s my b-brother Cain.”

“Cain?” Steve looked down at the man again. Then he blinked when the words truly reached him. “Are you. Hold on. Are you— _Abel?”_

“It’s n-nice to see we still haven’t gone out of f-fashion. First s-story holding s-strong.” Abel coughed blood. “I’ll resurrect in a m-minute. Don’t worry.”

“Does he just kill you over and over?” Steve asked, horrified.

“We’re m-mankind oldest’ tale. Like I said. Doesn’t go out of f-fashion.” Another cough, another eyeroll, this time to look at Steve’s footprints. “That’s a lot of b-blood.”

Steve suddenly recalled something, through the thick cloud of his confusion.

“Yeah. I think… I think I’m dying, too.”

“F-fitting,” Abel rasped. “The d-dying don’t w-wander—don’t waste t-time in the f-fringes—they get to the heart of the m-matter quickly. You needed d-desperate times to get here so f-fast. Not m-much of a dreamer otherwise, a-are you?”

“Dreamer?”

“You’re here to see _him._ Why else?” Abel convulsed. “I won’t be m-much longer. Sorry.”

“There must be something I can do to help,” Steve said, feeling helpless. His hands were moving on Abel’s chest, trying to shift the pressure, relieve some of the pain.

“You’re n-nice.” Abel swallowed thickly. “You can’t c-change a story that’s already w-written—especially not here in the realm of d-dreams and t-tales. But you’re human and you’re a-alive—you’re still writing y-your own. Look for Eve’s c-cave and ask for Matthew. Good l-luck.”

And then he died in Steve’s arms.

Steve sat there for a silent minute. Then he closed the man’s eyes. If the circumstances had been any different, he would’ve gone inside the house to make the murderer face his actions. But he couldn’t do much to fight a story.

He got up and left, walking away from the house, and did what Abel had said—looked for a cave. He found it in no time, without even trying, easy as… well, easy as a dream. It looked exactly like a fairy tale again, a dark hole carved into naked rock.

A raven flew out in a sudden flap of wings and circled him.

 “I’m looking for Matthew?” Steve called, on instinct.

The raven took a dive. Steve raised his fist just in time for the bird to perch on top of it and consider him with a beady eye. It was a very ordinary raven, a bit on the small side, with slightly unkempt feathers.

 _“I’m Matthew,”_ he croaked. _“Hey, aren’t you from Earth?”_

“I am,” Steve answered.

_“Do they still have candy canes?”_

“What?”

_“Candy canes. Striped pieces of sugar, mint-flavored. No? Doesn’t ring a bell?”_

“Um—yes,” Steve said. “Around Christmas. I’ve seen them.”

 _“Ah, see, that’s nice. I haven’t been a man in a long time. I figure when the candy canes are gone, then I’ll know I’m definitely out of touch.”_ He tilted his little head to the side. _“You here to see Eve?”_

“No,” Steve said, wondering if the whole Bible was lying in bits and pieces across the land—and then, finally starting to remember: “Dream.”

 _“Dream? Sorry, no can do. See that storm in the distance?”_ There were clouds turning the horizon gunmetal grey, briefly illuminated by flashes of lightning. _“I’d suggest waiting… oh, three to five business years.”_

“I can’t wait.” He pointed at his bleeding footprints. “I’m dying.”

 _“Yikes.”_ Matthew rearranged his wings. _“Yeah, that’s a suitable excuse. But—ah, he’s in a mood. How did you find me, again?”_

“Abel told me your name.”

The raven tilted his head to the side again. It was a very bird-like thing to do, like he’d been practicing the move. _“If you have Abel’s recommendation, then all right. But this ain’t gonna be a walk in the park. Gettit?”_

“Thank you,” Steve said. “Very much.”

 _“Polite and everything. Of all the haphazard souls who’ve stumbled into the Dreaming, you’re my favorite yet.”_ Matthew flew off. _“Come along, then.”_

They progressed through a changing countryside that was as beautiful as it was eerie—Steve was crossing a wonderful field of clover when he realized the ground was _breathing_ under his bleeding feet, and quickly changed course at Matthew’s urging, _“before he wakes up, that’d be the day.”_ Next were rows and rows of tulips that each had a tiny skull inside. A palace was beginning to appear on the horizon, looking like an odd pile of discarded pieces from castles all around the world. The storm raged and flashed above, roiling and growling.

At the raven’s injunction, Steve turned right to walk a dirt path across a field of strawberries, picture-perfect vivid green and shining red, complete with a melancholy pumpkin-head scarecrow. The sun was forever setting. Steve was busy squinting against the orange light when a shadow suddenly stretched to meet him: a man was coming the other way.

 _“Oh shit, oh shit,”_ Matthew said, coming down to land on his head. _“Stand still and don’t breathe.”_

Steve obeyed. It was easy not to breathe in the Dreaming; he didn’t seem to really need air. He stood without moving a muscle, feeling Matthew’s little claws digging into his scalp, until the man came up to him.

He had lipless mouths for eyes—rows of teeth closing in lieu of eyelids. He walked past, was very close for a moment; and then was gone.

 _“That was Dream’s worst nightmare,”_ Matthew said when the creature was out of earshot.

“What? More powerful than Dream?” Steve said, trying to look up at the top of his own head.

_“More p—? No. I meant he’s a nightmare. That’s his function. Dream created him. And he’s the worst of ‘em.”_

“Who the hell is this footbleeder?” suddenly called the scarecrow, scaring the daylights out of Steve.

 _“Visitor!”_ Matthew called in answer. _“Hey, hadn’t seen you there, Mervyn—could you tell Lucien to open the library entrance for us? Wyvern, Griffin and Hippogriff won’t let anyone through today.”_

“Yeah, for a good fuckin’ reason,” the pumpkin-head said. “Didn’t you see the storm? Now is _not_ the time to sneak someone in through the back.”

 _“I know! Just—tell Lucien, will ya? Christ, Merv.”_ He flew ahead again.

“This place doesn’t make any sense,” Steve muttered, hurrying after him.

_“It’s all a dream, pal. Sense is optional.”_

Steve saw the gatekeepers from afar—a hippogriff, a wyvern and a griffin indeed—just for a moment before Matthew led him around the palace to a strange little door at the back. Steve looked at his feet, then behind him. He had trailed blood all over the beautiful white marble terrace.

 _“Good luck,”_ the raven said. _“You’ll need it.”_

“Anything I shouldn’t do?” Steve asked.

 _“Yeah. Go in.”_ Matthew snorted at his own joke, then flew away.

Steve tried the door, but it was locked.

For a while he stood there, wondering if he was supposed to break it down. Then he suddenly felt something hard and cold in his hand, where Wade—yes: _Wade—_ had put it.

When he looked down, this time, his palm wasn’t empty. It was the Mind Stone, softly glowing yellow.

“To get to the Dreaming,” he mumbled. “All in the mind, huh?”

He pressed the Stone to the wooden door, which opened without a hitch on a dark, narrow corridor.

Steve ducked inside, tilting his shoulders to fit. The Stone was gone again from his hand, but he didn’t worry about it. It wasn’t his own. His own was waiting ahead, finally. The hallway smelled of dust and something very specific, though he couldn’t quite place it right away. After a moment, he realized it was old paper.

 _The library,_ Matthew had said.

His eyes were getting used to the dark. He saw rows and rows of books whose titles he didn’t try to read. Everything screamed at him that he didn’t belong here, from the too-narrow corridor to the sheer aesthetic of the place. He wasn’t good at stories. That had been Bucky, always with a book in his bag, head full of Tolkien and Lewis, dreaming of flying cars and of a bright future. Steve had always preferred action, facts, reality. Always so eager for a punch in the face.

A whisper started to follow him from shelf to shelf; it sounded angry and vicious, like a mean old man jostled awake.

“Yes, hello,” said someone right in front of him, startling him again. “And what are _you_ doing here?”

It was an incredibly tall, thin man, sharply dressed and wearing gold-rimmed glasses. Steve didn’t need Matthew to tell him that this was the librarian.

“Mr. Lucien?” he risked.

Lucien’s features didn’t change, yet he somehow managed to convey polite surprise. “I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“My name is Steve Rogers. From Earth. Um, Reality. I’m trying… We’re trying to gather copies of the Infinity Stones. To… save the universe?”

“Half,” Lucien said dryly. “But yes, I’m aware. However, I’m afraid Lord Morpheus is unavailable at the moment.”

Thunder boomed overhead, right on cue.

Steve opened his mouth, then stopped. If this was a dream, then he had to reason like he was in a dream. Or a fairy tale. God knew he’d gotten enough clues pointing to that.

The problem was that Abel had been right. Steve wasn’t much of a dreamer. He was good at inspiring people, but it wasn’t the same thing as telling a story; he was simply being eloquent, earnest, speaking the truth of his heart. He wasn’t a good liar, not good at fiction. Even when he was still in art school, he’d sketched real things, live models, never wandering in the realm of pure imagination. Did any part of him belong here?

“Mr. Rogers,” Lucien said. “You’ve trailed blood all across my library. It’s time for you to leave.”

Steve could have fought, but he had a feeling Lucien wasn’t the kind of enemy he could overpower. Besides, his strength didn’t mean much, here; he didn’t even really feel like he had a body. All he had was his mind. What could he do that’d make him worthy of meeting Dream?

God. Tony would have fit right in. _He_ should have been the one in the Dreaming. Steve should have taken Desire’s Stone—he’d been trying, too. Nobody else had been stepping forward. But Tony had butted in, swapped their destinies, and now Steve was running out of time, slowly bleeding out with every step he took, and he was going to die in a dream, never even waking up to see the people he’d let down.

He would never see Bucky again.

“Bucky,” he said slowly.

Lucien tilted his head to the side. “I’m sorry?”

“Bucky.” Steve looked up at him. “I made a promise. I have to tell a man that I love him. Everything I’m doing, I’m doing it for him. I want to save the universe because _he’s_ in the universe. I have no other hope. No other dream.”

Lucien stared. Then slowly closed his eyes.

“Damn it,” he muttered. “I can never resist a good love story.”

 

Steve stepped into a great hall of bare marble. His feet weren’t bleeding as abundantly as before. His life was drying out.

“Anybody?” he called.

A shadow moved in the shadows.

 **“On any other day,”** it said, **“your needs would have been met. A room would have awaited you, and a bed, and food. If nothing else, I would have seen you, and heard you, and thus fulfilled my responsibility to you.”**

A cold silence.

 **“But this day is today.”** A single light flashed in the darkness, like a distant star. **“And I said no visitors.”**

Steve stood his ground while Dream came out of the dark.

Rakish-thin, cheekbones and jawline and brow sharper than a razorblade, he would have been the most beautiful of the Endless—save perhaps for Desire—if not for his eyes, bottomless black holes where shone the distant lights of twin silver stars. He had unruly black hair, death-pale skin, and a long black coat lined with flames; not embroidery either, but actual, living fire. It rustled and rumbled when he walked.

“My name is—” Steve paused. If any of his identities would be known here, it would be the story, the legend, the made-up ideal. “Captain America.”

 **“The American Dream,”** Dream said flatly. **“Is this Lucien’s idea of a practical joke? You will find I am all out of patience.”**

“Lord Morpheus, I’ve come to ask you for the Reality Stone.”

Dream paused. Then he uncovered a ruby hanging around his throat.

 **“A novel strategy for a thief,”** he said. **“Just ask me to hand over the Dreaming’s most prized jewel. I have never cared for impertinence.”** A flick of his long pale fingers. **“Wake.”**

_“—Steve? Steve! He’s opened his eyes—he’s still breathing—”_

_“We have to get the katana out!”_

_“Are you crazy? He’ll bleed out all over the place! Steve, can you hear me? Steve!”_

Dream’s black-hole eyes narrowed. **“I would struggle for consciousness if I were you. Do you know why your feet are bleeding?”**

“Because I’m dying, I know,” Steve said, breathless. “I’ll die before I fail.”

 **“So you’ll die, and then fail.”** His power focused like a column of solid wind. **“Wake.”**

_“He’s opening his eyes, he’s looking at us—”_

_“Steve? Stay with me, c’mon. We’re so close to finishing this thing. You can’t go now. Steve? Steve?”_

**“Insolence will lead you nowhere.”**

“I’m not _insolent,”_ Steve said, sweating with effort. “I’m _dying._ I thought you were Dream?”

A frown. **“I am Dream of the Endless. Oneiros, Morpheus, Kai’ckul, L’Zoril. The Lord Shaper, the Prince of Stories. Shall I keep going?”**

“I don’t care how many names you give yourself. Are you seriously going—going to give up on half the universe because you’re in a _bad mood?”_ Steve clutched at his chest. That was where the blade was, though his feet were the ones bleeding, here in the Dreaming, because dreams were about symbols and of course a dying man would bleed out through his feet—his link to earth.

“If you’re that lousy a ruler, no wonder I’ve only ever had shitty dreams,” Steve said.

Dream’s anger cracked and boomed overhead, echoing in the empty marble of the palace. **“Then nightmares you will have, from now on.”**

“Already do,” Steve gasped. “Met your own worst nightmare coming here—the one with teeth for eyes—and he didn’t even look at me. They’ve been visiting me for so long, they musta grown _bored._ Do you think I don’t know what it is, to wake up screaming?” He closed his eyes. The pain was pounding closer to his consciousness. “I’m not afraid of you. I’ll never be afraid of you, however bad your mood gets. _Waking up’s_ the scary part.”

Dream was silent for a moment. The thunder kept rolling overhead, but less explosively now; almost considering. Oddly, his extraordinary clothing shifted into something that made him look tired and moody rather than grandiosely wrathful—no longer a flame-threaded cape, but black jeans and a grey t-shirt. He looked even thinner that way.

 **“Is that why you’ve come?”** Dream asked at last. **“For the nightmares to stop?”**

Part of Steve twitched like a wounded animal— _could Dream make them stop?_ But he snuffed that hope quicker than a candle in a hurricane. This _wasn’t_ why he’d come.

“I’ve come for Bucky,” he said. He felt like it was the only thing he’d ever said, all his life. The only truth of him. “I’ve come to save Bucky. The man I love.”

 **“And you want my ruby.”** The thunder rolled farther away, like a dreamer in his sleep, turning to the other side of the bed. Not far, though. **“When the first one was stolen from me, I was enslaved for seven decades. Why do you think I am _in a mood?”_**

“I’m sorry to hear it. I really am.” Steve hesitated. “Can you read my mind? Can you know I’m telling the truth? Because I’ll give you my word I’ll bring it back.”

**“Your word?”**

“And anything else you want me to give you,” Steve said. “I’m just… I’m not leaving without that Stone. I can’t.”

 **“No?”** The silver stars in his eyes still shone, ever so distant. **“But you’re dying.”**

“So? There are lots of dead things in your realm, from what I’ve seen of it. Maybe I can be a raven, too. Or a story. Sometimes I feel like I’ve only ever been a story.”

Steve coughed out blood. His own reality was catching up to him. Here, reality was anything Dream wanted; and Steve needed to bring that power back with him through the looking-glass, no matter how dangerous it was. He had no convincing lies, he could spin no tales and construct no fictions. He only had what he’d always had: his earnestness, his conviction, his belief.

And the knowledge that he was the one thing protecting what he loved. So he _couldn’t_ lose. Simple as that. That was the only reason he’d managed to hold on, through loss and grief all these years. He just couldn’t afford to lose.

“Look, I don’t belong here. It shouldn’t have been me; I never had that many dreams. I can’t think up a proper bargain. So do that. Tell me I have to sell my soul, tell me I have to suffer forever, tell me I have to spend eternity as your slave. Hell, tell me I have to die, for all I care. Do your worst. Me, I’m not leaving. I’m not afraid.” He closed his eyes. “I can do this all day.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter on Thursday. Thank you so much for reading. ♥ 
> 
> ALSO, my RBB collab with alby_mangroves just came out and it's [right here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14826525). Go check it out if you're interested!!! We are SO excited to share it with you and THE ART IS SO BEAUTIFUL GUYS


	12. Coda

 

 

 

 

 

A red haze rose from the Stone clutched in his fist, and closed the wound in his chest.

He heard exclamations and yells. He wanted so badly to sleep some more.

“I’m fine,” he muttered before he even opened his eyes.

He wasn’t fine. He’d healed his wound, but he could already feel, without even looking, what he was missing. This he couldn’t fix with the Stone—or he’d lose the Stone itself, because it was the price he’d paid to have it. But he’d have time to worry about all of it later.

Cracking his eyes open, he lifted his head up with an effort and saw that Thor was restraining Wade. “Thor, let him go. Every Stone we got gave us a hint as to how to get the next one. Wade just did what he needed to do.”

“Luckily I’m used to voices in my head telling me to stab people. That Mind Stone’s _chatty,_ ” Deadpool said. He looked slightly disappointed as Thor loosened his hold. “And c’mon, he’s clearly the protagonist. What’s a little stabbing gonna do to him?”

“Quick question,” Tony ground out. He was very pale, and his eyes kept bouncing off Steve’s blood-soaked shirt. “What does it take to _shut you the fuck up?”_

“Other than the X-Men Origins director? Beats me.”

 _“I liked him better when he was numb with trauma,”_ Nebula rasped.

“Sadly for everyone else, that never lasts very long. I’m a walking coping mechanism for, oh! _So_ many things. Yep! All buried down there with the rest!” They couldn't quite see his face under the mask, but the line of his shoulders was just this side of too tight.

“Nat,” Steve mumbled, and found she was already close to him—in fact, he had his head in her lap, which squeezed at his heart in a way he couldn’t afford right now, not so close to the end. “Nat, can you help me up?”

“Yes.” Her voice was low and hoarse and sorry. He didn’t want to meet her gaze for fear of finding pity there. “Yeah, okay, Steve.”

He got up, with her help, and looked up to find Okoye at the edge of the group, staring at them all.

“Ladies, gentlemen,” she said. “I believe the gauntlet is ready.”

 

*

 

Okoye was still reeling from the Power Stone flaming through her veins, but the quest was almost complete, so she’d dragged herself up and forward, _up, General, up, this is no place to die._ She watched as Thor broke the mold with his axe, in one powerful blow; the metal cracked in half and a small object rolled out.

They all stared at it for a perplexed minute.

“That’s… not a gauntlet,” Natasha said eventually.

The god bent down to pick up the tiny golden ankh. His brow was furrowed. “I do not understand. How is this possible?”

“Hey, you were warned,” said a warm voice. “Symbols _all_ over the place.”

Deadpool squealed.

“Hi, Wade.” Smiling, Death turned her cheek just in time for him to plant a kiss on it. “How was the quest?”

“Honestly?” He looked around at them. His energy felt fake, somewhat—forced, ever since he’d recovered the Mind Stone and stabbed Rogers through the chest. “I think we’re… about ready to go home.”

She hummed, then looked at Rogers. No pity flashed in her eyes—what could Death ever pity about life?—but she did bite her lip. “Aw. Did Dream do this to you? That’s just _typical.”_

“It’s okay,” Rogers said, making an effort to speak. “I was asking for a lot. This was a fair bargain.”

“Yeah. A cruel way to be fair.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ll have to talk to him one of these days. All he’s ever done since he’s come back is brood.”

“O Ukufa,” Okoye said respectfully. “Is this yours?”

Thor showed her the ankh.

Death smiled at him. Only then did Okoye realize she did have an ankh on her, a little silver cross around her neck. Symbols, symbols, symbols. Except the ankh was a symbol of life—something Okoye knew very well, worshipping Bast from Egyptian descent. Maybe it made sense after all, for Death to wear it. Part of her was afraid to think about it too long, or too closely.

Thor stepped forward. “I have nothing left to lose.” His voice was shaking. “Name your price. I shall pay it.”

The silence almost felt like it had texture, sleek and cold like glass. They’d paid and paid their dues, to Destruction and Desire and Despair, to Delirium and Dream, to Destiny. Like going through all the stages of grief, one after the other. And now, finally, it was time for Death.

“Name it,” Thor repeated hoarsely. “I am—I am ready.”

Death looked like a mother trying not to laugh at her toddler’s efforts to sit up and walk—because while it wouldn’t have been an unkind laugh, the child might still hear it as mockery, and feel hurt.

“Aw, Thor,” she said. “Do you know why all my siblings asked you guys for compensation?”

Nobody answered her.

“Because they know they’ll only ever have a fleeting grasp on you—even Destiny,” she said. “So… they gather what they can get. They add more paths to the garden, more portraits in the gallery, more notches on their belt, more bad paintings and talking dogs, more dreams and nightmares. Hoarding and hoarding people, in bits and pieces, to forget that it’ll all go away one day, that in the end it’ll be earth to earth, dust to dust…”

“…ashes to side chicks,” said Wade.

“But _I_ don’t need that kind of insurance,” Death went on. _“I_ don’t need a place to put stuff in. I’m not in a hurry; I’ll be waiting at the end of time. I’ll get each and every single one of you. And, me? I’ll get you for good.”

She smiled again. Her smile made you want to smile with her.

“So thanks, Thor, but it’s okay. You’re off the hook. I don’t need anything from you—and I think I’ll even give _you_ something instead.”

“Give me something?” His eyes were wide, his face very pale.

“Ah, you’ll see. It’s a surprise.” She beckoned with both hands. “Come on, now! Time to return the gems. I’m sure Dream’s especially anxious to get his own back.”

Shuffling, hesitant, they all came closer.

Natasha was first in line. “Here,” she said. In her hands, the sword had turned into a tiny blue stone, somehow without seeming to change at all. The gem set itself around the ankh’s curve, with a sharp clinking sound. “About… about Destruction…”

“He’s where you left him, making a mess of things.” Death shook her head. “I know it’s complicated. For what it’s worth, we all miss him. He’s such a sweet guy. Give it some thought?”

Natasha nodded, and turned away.

Okoye was next; she held out her book of prayers, and Death took the gem out of its pages with a wink.

“Destiny’s a bit boring, isn’t he?” She grinned, holding out her little finger. _“So_ boring. Don’t let him get to you, really—it’s not like he ever _writes_ anything in that log of his.”

Okoye just smiled, linking her pinky with Death for a moment. Stark came next, twitchy, reaching under his shirt.

“Hi, Tony. I know you don’t like me much,” Death said.

“You know, when I was called _Merchant of Death,_ it was really more of an image…” He cleared his throat, then handed her the Soul Stone. “Your sibling’s a dick.”

“I’m proud of you,” she said.

He went very silent, and just stepped back to leave room for Nebula, who slipped the hooked ring from her finger.

 _“I was told I would get to kill Thanos,”_ she rasped, giving it away.

Death accepted the Time Stone. “Yeah. He’s back on Titan, if you want him. But you do realize your sister’s still alive, right?”

Nebula stared at her.

_“What?”_

“She’s the sacrifice,” Death explained, like it should have been obvious. “She’s what Thanos’ Soul Stone is _made_ of. So… maybe try _not_ to kill him until you’ve fixed that. Because when he dies, his loves and wants and desires die, too.”

Nebula looked aghast. _“But—”_ she said. _“But—but—”_ She had never sounded more like a machine, stuck in a loop. _“But—how do I get her out?”_

“Not my area of expertise, I’m sorry. At least now you know, though. Right?”

Before Nebula could answer, Deadpool elbowed his way to the front of the line and spread his arms wide. “Darling!”

“Honey,” Death smiled.

Tony gathered Nebula close to him and started talking in a low voice with her. Okoye looked away. So there was still hope for the blue woman. Which really did, in this case, make it a component of despair. Her fingers tightened around her spear.

“I’m sorry, gorgeous, I gotta be honest with you,” Deadpool was saying, “I just—I really feel like staying in bed with Vanessa for approximately twenty years.” He rubbed the back of his head. “And—you got two of me already. Thanks to your little sister. So… ships passing in the night?”

“Ship’s the word,” she smiled, and he laughed like it was the funniest joke he’d heard in years, then flipped the Mind Stone at her.

Rogers stepped up next.

“Hiya, Steve,” Death said, and took him in her arms.

Okoye saw him blink over Ukufa’s shoulder. Then he closed his eyes and relaxed, maybe for the first time since Okoye had met him. Nobody said a word. After a while he stepped back, without looking at anybody.

Natasha put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

“All right.” Death held out her ankh; the stones were all there, pinpricks of color on a background of gold. She considered it with a raised eyebrow. “Bit gaudy for me. I’m more of a black-and-silver kind of girl.”

Everything slowly melted into a bright, blinding light.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wade looked around. He didn’t recognize this place. There was nothing written in the sky. Where had the universe brought him?

His phone pinged.

_gps app says you’re in new jersey?? everything all right?? xoxo ness_

 

*

 

Thor sat on a grassy hill somewhere. He didn’t know where, and didn’t care much; he only knew Death owed him a surprise.

He stared into space until he heard a distant, high-pitched sound. Getting to his feet, he suddenly recognized the place. Norway. Where Death had taken Odin.

It was a baby, crying the coughing cry of a newborn. After a moment of wandering in the grass, Thor found him and cautiously took him in his arms. He couldn’t remember ever holding one before. The baby’s cries turned into strangled hiccups; on instinct, Thor wiggled a finger under his tiny nose, making silly noises. The baby’s breath hitched once, twice; then he blinked and reached for Thor’s finger, wrapping it in a surprisingly strong grip.

It was then that Thor noticed his blanket was black and green and gold.

“Gods,” he breathed, tears blurring his eyes. _“Bump you up the reincarnation list._ ”

 

*

 

“Hey, Nat.” Destruction swallowed. “What, uh… did you forget something? Extra Stone? Slap in my face?”

She took a deep, deep breath, then let it out.

“Coffee,” she murmured. “Can you make coffee?”

He blinked. “I’m—kinda bad at making coffee, actually. Always burn it.” Then Clint smiled, tentatively. “But, I mean, I can _try.”_

 

*

 

“Wow,” Tony said, shuffling into the living room to flop onto the couch. “God. One flight of stairs and I can’t breathe. That’s gonna be fun.”

 _“You can rest, now,”_ Nebula rasped.

“No. No I can’t. I have to call Pepper, tell her… tell her everything. And announce my retirement to the p—” He stopped himself. Looked up. “Hold the phone, Blue Suede. Didn’t you say your whole body was mechanical?”

_“Nearly.”_

“Uh-huh. Say, I’m gonna have a lot of free time on my hands. And _you’re_ off to kill the biggest, baddest villain in the universe, after you figure out your Stone-extracting impossible quest. So. Care for an upgrade?”

Nebula’s lips twisted into a smile.

Then a loud _clang_ made them both jump—she pulled out weapons, aiming them at the closet. A confused teenager stumbled out, clad in red and blue and gold.

“Mr. Stark, I’m so sorry,” he said quickly. “I have _no idea_ how I got in there.”

 

*

 

Okoye was back in the forest, wandering. She wasn't sure why she was here. She wasn't sure of anything; secretly, she had never been. Everyone just pretended, maybe.

"Okoye," said a voice behind her, making her spin round and aim her spear at the intruder.

Then she lowered it when she saw the puzzled look on T’Challa’s face.

“General? What happened? What’s wrong?”

She breathed out. “Nothing,” she said. “Nothing at all is wrong.” Tears came to her. She raised her kimoyo beads to her mouth. “My Queen—please come at once. The challenge is won.”

 

*

 

Steve walked through shifting shapes until they coalesced into a quiet suburban street. In the distance, the DC skyline was slowly rising out of the fog.

He walked to Sam's house, took a deep breath, and allowed himself a minute of being so terrified he couldn't breathe. Then he knocked on the door.

“Steve! Man, I was wondering when—” Sam stopped short, staring at him.

Steve grimaced a smile. “Hi, Sam.”

“Jesus Christ,” Sam breathed like he’d been punched in the gut. “What, what did you— _Christ_.” He came down the porch. “Steve…”

He reached for him, without daring to touch. Steve was the one to grab his hand and awkwardly squeeze his fingers.

“Good to have you back,” he managed.

“Can’t even remember being gone. I just saw on the news that—" He shook his head. "Everything. Yeah. But you… Christ. Look at you. What _happened?”_

Steve shrugged tiredly, then smiled. "We got you back."

They sat down on the front steps. Sam’s brow was furrowed in worry; he kept looking at him, up-and-down little glances. “Steve, are you—are you gonna be okay?”

“Oh, a few trips to the hospital, maybe,” Steve said. “Nothing out of the ordinary. What about you?”

“I told you. I’m okay. It was clearly easier for all of us who were gone. Half of mankind’s gonna wind up with PTSD now." Sam's voice grew softer. "But you did it, huh? You did it again. You’ve saved everyone.”

Steve thought of Tony, and thought of Clint, and of Nebula's sister, but just shook his head again. He had no energy to argue the point.

“Right.” Sam didn’t look any less concerned. “Steve, are you sure that—”

“I’m fine, Sam.”

“Yeah. Well.” He exhaled sharply. “I assume there’s someone else you came to see.”

Steve looked up, eyes wide. “What? He’s _here?_ I thought he'd be in Wakanda—I—”

“We both woke up here a few hours ago. Me in my bed and him on the couch. Like someone set us there playing house.”

“Is he all right? Is he—”

“Steve,” Sam said. “Maybe you should go ask him that yourself, huh?”

 

Bucky was in Sam’s kitchen.

_Bucky was in Sam’s kitchen._

Looking into his glass of orange juice like it was his last Scotch before the bar closed up. His hair fell around his face; his shoulders were hunched, his head bowed. His new arm, black and gold, purred quietly in the silence, echoing the fridge’s humming.

Alive. Alive. Alive.

Steve couldn’t breathe. The miracle took up all the room in his lungs. Then he looked at the arm again, the sleek deadly metal arm, and could breathe even less; he felt guilt choke him like rubber smoke.

“Why d’you follow me, Buck?” he said. His tears were rolling down, but he tried to keep them out of his voice. He didn’t want Bucky to turn around just yet. He wiped his eyes, his nose. “Why do you always follow me?”

“Hell, Steve.” Bucky turned his head just enough that Steve could see the line of his profile, his tired blue eyes, his scruff, his long hair. “After all this time. Do you gotta ask?”

“You didn’t want to fight,” Steve protested, tears rolling and rolling down. “You were done. And I dragged you back in.” He was talking about Wakanda. But he was also talking about Romania. And World War II before that. “You were _done._ And I kept dragging you back in.”

“Steve—” Bucky said, and Steve panicked—he couldn’t let him turn around without warning.

“Bucky, wait—wait. Just…” Steve wiped his nose again. “Just—there's something... Just look at me one time. I need you to see—to see me. And then after that, I need to tell you something.”

Bucky got up from his chair, took the time to brush his hair back with his metal hand, then turned around at last. “Steve,” he said, soft and kind and already so full of forgiveness, “you don’t hafta—”

And then he stopped.

Eyes round, mouth half-open, frozen still.

Steve drank in the sight of him. He was here. _He was here._ Did anything else matter? No. It had all been worth it. Even his breath rattling in his hollow chest, the muted sounds through his deaf ear, the ache in his crooked spine.

“Remember Azzano? You asked me if it was permanent.” Steve managed a smile. “Turns out the answer’s no.”

 _“Steve.”_ It was a breath of pure horror. Bucky took one step forward, then stopped. “Steve, what did you _do?”_

“Bargained a dream for half the universe. Really, I bargained a dream for _you._ And I didn’t have that many at hand, so...” Steve made a helpless gesture, then wiped his eyes. “Do you know, I’m stupid. I’m real stupid. I can only stop when someone’s stopping me. For a while there, it seemed it’d never happen. That I’d never find someone stronger than me. But I finally did, and he’s stopped things for me. I can’t fight anymore. I won’t fight anymore.”

Bucky was speechless.

“So—now that I can’t drag you into any more fights—” Steve’s throat closed with fear. “Now maybe I can tell you something else.”

God, this was hard. Harder than he’d thought it would be. Why was he even doing this? Just because he’d promised Tony, in a moment of anger and sadness? He could have said nothing; he could have kept lying and stalling like he’d done all his life.

But he realized now part of him was glad someone had finally dared him to do it. The same way he was glad that Dream had ripped Captain America out of him, even though the wound was fresh and still hurt like hell. In the end, Steve Rogers was nothing but a coward. A guy who waited around for other people to take the choice out of his hands.

“Steve,” Bucky said very quietly. “Tell me what? You’re—you’re scaring me.”

Steve huffed. “Oh, Jesus, no, don’t be scared, Bucky. It’s nothing. It’s nothing important. Just…”

Bucky was waiting, tense and wary. Steve took a deep breath, then let it out.

“I, uh,” he said, looking at the ground. “I—I love you. I’ve been in love with you.” He must sound so trite, so flat, even to him though the words felt like they were hot coals, burning his lips on the way out. “It’s just, it’s been decades, and. Some people thought I oughta tell you. So here it is.”

No answer.

Didn’t come as a surprise; that had to have been the worst declaration in the history of the world. Completely soulless. He’d never been good with that, his feelings and the words that came with them. He couldn’t look up; he cleared his throat, still looking at his shoes. Maybe he should go back to sit on the porch with Sam. Let Bucky sort it all out, give him space.

“What?” Bucky said eventually, bewildered.

Steve winced.

“No, Steve, hold on—just—” Bucky stepped forward, grabbing his skinny arm. “Steve, _what?”_

“I’ve just embarrassed myself, is what,” Steve muttered. “Big deal. You’ve seen me do worse.”

_“Stevie.”_

That was a fucking low blow. Steve took a sharp breath, then looked away instead of down. Bucky shook him gently. He was so tall and broad now, next to him. Really brought a guy back.

“Look at me,” he said softly. “Your turn to look at me.”

Steve never backed down from a challenge. He looked up, and the expression on his own face—a lot of _stubborn,_ probably, and a lot of _afraid_ —made Bucky smile all of a sudden. He hadn’t smiled like this since before the war, when crinkling eyes and sunshine fondness came as naturally to him as breathing. Steve felt like someone had punched him in the chest. Again.

“Feel like you’re about to fight me in a back alley,” Bucky grinned. 

Steve’s entire face _wobbled_. Bucky shook his head, then drew him close and held him tight; and for the first time in his life, Steve hugged him like he _wanted_ to hug him—clung desperately to him, grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, buried his face in his neck. There was no need to hide anything, to worry about anything. It was all out in the open. It was such a relief it hurt in every cell of his body.

Bucky didn’t back-slap him into platonic manliness, either. Just held him.

“The hell were you afraid of,” he mumbled in Steve's ear. “Thought I was gonna throw you out of the house or something?”

“Shut up,” Steve mumbled into his shirt, cheeks heating.

“No, Steve, I mean it. I told you, way back when. I’m with you—”

“…till the end of the line. I know,” Steve said, throat tight. “I know, Buck.”

 _“Do_ you? ‘Cause _that’s_ love.” His voice rumbled through Steve’s entire body. “Don’t you know that’s love, Stevie? And, look, I don’t know—apparently you want to see me naked and do things Father Gabe would disapprove of—”

“God—” Steve said, trying to pull away, “Buck—”

 “—and I haven’t thought about anything like that ever since I fell off that damn train, so I got no answer for you right now,” Bucky went on, gripping him tight to keep him from squirming away, “but Jesus Christ, Steve. Don’t you know I love you? Don’t you know we’re family? Don’t you _know_ that?”

Steve swallowed. He wanted to cry again.

“Yes. I do know, Buck.”

“The hell were you afraid of?” Bucky repeated, softly. “That I couldn’t say it back?”

“No. I don’t care about that.” And it was true. Steve had never wanted anything from him. How could he? He had him already. Even when he had nothing, he had Bucky.

Bucky’s hair was tickling his cheek. “Then what?”

“I don’t know anymore.”

And this was true, too. Here, now, in his true body, in Bucky Barnes’ embrace, Steve couldn’t remember ever being afraid of anything.

“Come back with me,” Bucky murmured. “To Wakanda. And—stay, this time. We can talk about it. We can figure it all out. We can have all the time in the world. If you just _stay.”_

This was, Steve understood, as momentous as his own declaration had been—something Bucky had wanted to tell him for a while, too. Waiting for the right moment to ask him, quietly telling himself now wasn’t the time, now wouldn’t work. Must have been eating at him from the inside, because it was so obviously what Steve couldn’t ever want, fighting all around the world as he was. Always, always fighting. Steve really was the dumbest idiot to ever live. All this time, Bucky had been following him in the hope that one day Steve would stop. And maybe turn towards him and say _all right, I think we're done here,_ _let’s go home._

“All right,” Steve murmured.

Bucky pulled back to look at him. “Yeah?”

Steve cleared his throat, then shrugged. “Sure. Where else am I gonna go? I’m retired.”

“You sure know how to make a guy feel special.” Bucky threw his arm over his shoulders, and suddenly it was like neither of them was a day over twenty, still thinking maybe there wouldn’t be a war at all, and even if there was then it’d be over quick. "C'mon. Let’s go find Sam and grab a drink. S’been a long war, we’ve earned it.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk what to tell you. At first I just wanted to heal my IW-induced wounds, and then the fic started to double as a love letter to the Sandman comics.¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ It was really fun playing matchmaker between the Endless and their Stones, throwing Deadpool in the mix, and writing a bunch of disparate characters together. Thank you so much for coming with me on this weird ride, guys. I'd missed posting as I wrote, hadn't done it in a while! Wobblier plot, but oh, the adrenaline. :D  
> Your comments give me so much life, thank you again so so much - and to everyone who kudo'ed, and to everyone who lurked. Just thank you for reading. ♥
> 
> And now for something completely different: my fic for the Cap RBB this year is still [over there](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14826525), if it tickles your fancy!

**Author's Note:**

> (My alter-ego's Tumblr is [thattaway](https://naomisalman.tumblr.com/) if you're interested in my RL writing)


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